Les Violons de l'Automne
by The Cynic
Summary: It's a Tom Riddle fic. There aren't enough of them out there.... I don't know. It's an attempt. TMR attends Hogwarts, despite the shadow of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald. His eventual turn to that side will come as a shock to those who hold him dear...
1. Two Births and a Death

Author's Note: The poem in French is translated by Magic Gerbil (thank you :) and the Kaddish translation at the veeeeerrry bottom of the page is taken from my prayer book. Oh, yes. Tom Riddle does not belong to me (although I wish he did) and neither do any JK characters. I'm sure you'll be able to recognize them when they do show their faces. Eeeeh! Enough disclaimer-ing. Please enjoy "Les Violons de L'Automne."  
  
Chanson d'Automne – Paul Verlaine  
Les sanglots longs  
Des violons  
De l'automne  
Blessent mon coeur  
D'une langueur  
Monotone.  
  
Tout suffocant  
Et blême, quand  
Sonne l'heure,  
Je me souviens  
Des jours anciens  
Et je pleure  
  
Et je m'en vais  
Au vent mauvais  
Qui m'emporte  
Deçà, delà,  
Pareil à la  
Feuille morte.  
  
*  
  
The long sobs  
Of the violins  
Of autumn  
Wound my heart  
With a monotonous  
Languor.  
  
Everything astonishing  
And pale, when  
The hour strikes,  
I remember  
Ancient days  
And I cry.  
  
And I go from there,  
To the unpleasant wind,  
That brings me  
Here and there  
Like a dead leaf.  
  
*  
  
"Yit gadal v'yit-kadash sh'mey raba."  
  
Like many things, it began with a birth.  
  
"B'alma di v'ra hirutey, v'yam-lih mal-hutey."  
  
Like many things, it began with a death.  
  
"B'ha-yey-hon, u'v'yomey-hon..."  
  
Perhaps it would end. Perhaps it would continue, indefinitely. Perhaps it would draw to a close in some place far away, content in its accomplishment. Perhaps there would be happiness, or perhaps heartache.  
  
"U-v'ha-yey d'hol beyt Yisrael..."  
  
Perhaps.  
  
"Ba-agala u-vizman kariv, v'imru, amen."  
  
But the point is – it began.  
  
*  
  
London, England, 1928  
She was dying, this she knew. Although it pained her to leave behind her small son, she was gradually slipping towards that eternal respite that loomed beyond the horizons of her vision. One thing she wished, that she could see her husband, and the child's father, once more. His face surfaced abruptly before her, cold and cynical and cruel – but she could feel nothing but a fierce love for him. For him, and for the product of his seed that she had carried nine long months, culminating in painful labor.  
  
The woman's dark curls matted damply to her head and frizzed around her ears in wild ringlets. Despite the fact that her face was very pale, there was a smile upon it, as she whispered to the two-year old boy sitting on the bed beside her. His face was anything but smiling, and had upon it an incongruously intelligent expression, for one so young and callow. "Tommy," the mother was whispering, "Tommy, it won't be long now..."  
  
"Don't go, mama," he said, face crumpling. "Don't leave me." The childish, high-pitched voice was strangely articulate.  
  
"I'm sorry, Tommy... I'm sorry..." The woman hugged the boy close to her. "Don't ever forget who you are. Love y..." Her eyes slid shut and stayed shut, and her face resembled a waxen mask.  
  
He buried his face in her shoulder, and for one of the few times in his life, Tom Marvolo Riddle cried.  
  
*  
  
London, England, 1936  
"Oseh shalom b'imromah, hu ya'aseh shalom alenu, v'achol Yisrael, v'imru, amen." Rebecca Greenburn fidgeted nervously as she stood, trying to make as little noise as possible. Next to her, Ima, in black dress and cap, both torn in a gesture of mourning, let the tears flow down her face. She lamented the passing of her grandfather, Saul – but could not help being relieved as well. He had been ill so long... To her right, Aba stared ahead to where the Rabbi was reciting the Kaddish. His face had no expression. Aba had never been overly fond of Saba, but attended the funeral as a good man should.  
  
Rebecca was trapped between them, her mother and father, Israel and Leah Greenburn, Ima and Aba. She had not know Saba well, but he had always been kind to her and given her hard orange candies to eat, whenever she visited. She would sit on his knee in the library, and inhale the bookish smell, mingled with the scent of oranges, fresh and tropical, and the smell of old man, musty and mildewed by time. She was sorry, but not quite sad. He had never trusted her to touch the books. More bored, than anything, and her legs were falling asleep. She pulled her long black socks up where they slipped to below the knee.  
  
Becca's mother thought her strange. Perhaps, Leah was right. At the moment, vague thoughts were chasing through the child's head. What must it be like to die? Maybe Saba was sitting somewhere and reading his beloved books. Maybe he was young again and running through a grass meadow with Savta, years lost. It was times like these that Ima laughed, and called Becca her dear little dreamer. Not so little for long, she thought to herself. At least, not little and tiny like the infant Gideon, even now asleep in his crib at home.  
  
Saul Greenburn had died on a Thursday, and had promptly been buried in an unadorned pine casket, as per his wishes. They filed from the synagogue, the mourners in sable, and chattered their small talk and condolences. Leah and Israel lingered on the stairs, she with tears streaking her mascara and he with a grave-somber face, shaking hands firmly. The community as a whole was somewhat subdued, as news from the Continent poured in. The Greenburn family had no relatives in Germany, but many of their friends did, and worried about what might happen, now that Hitler was mobilizing.  
  
The talk gradually shifted from the departed elder to the situation in Europe.  
  
"At least there is no war, kennahara," one old woman murmured.  
  
"There is no war!" Becca's father exclaimed mockingly. "There is no war! D' you think Hitler will be satisfied with the Rhineland and the Sudetenland? He is like a hungry wolf, swallowing up everything in the way."  
  
"Israel..." Ima said warningly.  
  
"I'm sorry, Leah. I know how this must hurt you. But the situation in Europe will not get any better – Hitler is a maniac."  
  
"Israel," Ima said, but pleading this time, quiet. "Please."  
  
"I'm sorry," Aba said, and hugged her. "These are hard times we live in."  
  
"I know," she whispered, clinging to him. "I know."  
  
To Becca, small and forgotten on the stairs, it seemed a long time before anyone noticed her, the little girl with the too-serious expression and the skinned elbows.  
  
*  
  
London, England, 1936  
The moon streamed through the window of the orphanage and onto Tom Riddle's face, and he turned over on his side, away from the blinding silver-light. He closed his eyes and burrowed more deeply into the hard mattress provided by the directors. It was fairly quiet for a London night, and perhaps he was imagining it, but – from somewhere, drifting through the open window, came the almost silent sound of a violin. The music reminded him of his mother – once, a long time ago, she had played for a delighted, chubby baby boy.  
  
Tom fought back the sudden urge to laugh. Odd things amused him; the other children did not always understand his sense of humor. Shaking silently, he sat up and surveyed the other boys in the dormitory with something surprisingly like hate. He watched each and every one of them, lip curling upward. Their mouths, slack and limp, were open, and some drooled. Muggles, Tom thought fiercely. It wasn't as though they went out of their way to be kind to him, either. Hardly a day went by when the children didn't mock him about something, be it his paleness, or the occasional fits of melancholy that closed his face to emotion.  
  
The only respite, the only hope that he had for the future, was a letter from a certain school in the Scottish highlands. He remembered clearly his mother telling tales of the wizard world, but all the same, it was obscured behind the memory-fog that surrounded all thoughts as old as that one. Still, odd things would happen around him – one of the other boys his age, punching him casually in the stomach, was suddenly thrown backwards against the wall with such force that his head was cut and bled profusely. Another time, the director of the orphanage had locked him in the closet, and later found the bolt completely melted from the door. None of these things made the hellish atmosphere any easier, but they did give the boy a grim sort of satisfaction.  
  
Tom lay on his bed, hating the orphanage, the people in it, his father for leaving his mother, and never even wondered whether that was strange for a boy of ten years of age.  
  
After a while, he fell asleep, but it was to uneasy dreams that roiled behind his eyelids.  
  
*  
  
London, England, 1937  
Becca Greenburn lay on her bed, eyes closed. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers," she whispered, "For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition; and gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." With a sigh, she opened her eyes and glanced at the page upon which Henry the Fifth's famous speech was printed. Exactly right, and accurate.  
  
"Becca!" Ima called from downstairs, "We're going to light the candles in fifteen minutes! Wash your hands and get down here!"  
  
With another sigh, Becca's mind was drawn from the antiquated world of Henry the Fifth, where men gave brave speeches and a beautiful Princess laughed over the vulgarities of the English language. The world was not the same; to be sure, no one spoke like the characters in Shakespeare's plays. But she wished, with all her heart, she wished that they would. "There's just no magic left in the world," Becca said to herself, dark eyes closing again. Inside her head, everything was so much more interesting than here –  
  
"BECCA!" Ima yelled, sounding annoyed, this time, "Shabbat is starting and we cannot wait!"  
  
"You could start without me?" Becca rejoined hopefully.  
  
"Not a chance!" Aba called cheerfully, his voice muffled by the distance.  
  
"All right, all right," Becca answered morosely, closing the book reverently and placing it on her pillow. Though it was difficult to do in skirts, Becca ran down the stairs two at a time and presented herself to Ima and Aba with a flourish.  
  
"Ah, I had wondered what that noise was," Aba said, his eyes comically crossed, "Now I see it is a young elephant, escaped from the zoo!"  
  
Becca grinned at him. "No, Aba, it's me!" It was an old joke of theirs.  
  
"Me? Who is me?"  
  
"Becca, your daughter!"  
  
"I think I would have known if Leah had given birth to an elephant."  
  
"I'm large enough to hold an elephant now, am I?" Ima demanded, mock-outraged. She was frying potatoes on the stove, and turned over her shoulder to look at her family.  
  
Becca examined them, as well. There was little Gideon, dark-eyed and with the beginning of a black fuzz upon his hair, in his high-chair, attempting to eat his toe in the mistaken belief that it was a viable source of nutrition. Aba, tall, thin, and black haired, a small shiny circle of skin daring to peep through the forest of his thick hair, grinning wickedly at Leah, who was deep complected, regal rather than beautiful. It was her family, and she fit here. Becca looked solemnly at them for a moment. She would not want to lose them.  
  
"What now, Becca?" Ima asked in an exasperated tone, "What can you possibly have to look so miserable about?"  
  
"Not miserable, Ima, just—"  
  
"Biwd!" Gideon yelped delightedly, waving his pudgy hands above his head.  
  
Becca stifled a yelp of her own, but Ima shrieked and jumped backward. "What — how?" she asked weakly, as the barn owl swooped through the kitchen, dropped a letter upon the table, and flew away again, through the open window. They all stared at the parchment envelope as though it might explode. In glowing green ink on the front, it was addressed to Becca. No postmarks, but then, of course they wouldn't need them – not as though the owl was any part of the postal service! After a moment, Becca picked up the envelope carefully.  
  
"I – I wonder what this could be."  
  
"Open it," Ima said.  
  
"I don't believe it," Aba said; still staring out the window. "An owl – you saw it, did you? An owl just flew through the kitchen—"  
  
"Aba, hush, I need to read this," Becca said, frowning at the letter. With sudden resolution, she slid her thumb beneath the purple wax seal and lifted the top of the envelope, pulling out several sheets of heavy parchment. Scanning it quickly, dark brown eyes gradually widening, the girl looked up at her parents in total shock. "Ima," she said, "Ima, it says I'm a witch!"  
  
"You're a WHAT?" Aba demanded, "Let me see that!"  
  
The letter said, in entirety:  
"HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY.  
  
"Headmaster: A. Dippet (Order of Merlin, Second Class, Exc. Officer, International Confed. Of Wizards)  
  
"Dear Miss Greenburn,  
"This letter may shock you, even frighten you, but we at Hogwarts School must assure you that this letter is no hoax. There is, in London and around the world, a society of magic people living in secret from those of non-magic descent, those we call Muggles. You, though descended from the very same, have abilities and powers which merit your introduction to the wizard-world. You, Miss Greenburn, are a witch.  
"In order to prove the authenticity of this letter, one of our staff members will arrive at your house tomorrow, at nine o' the clock. Enclosed is a list of necessary materials, and term will begin September 1st.  
"I hope this will not inconvenience you terribly.  
"Yours sincerely,  
"(Here in a scrawling, looping signature) Calliope Abernathy.  
"(In print) Calliope Abernathy,  
"Deputy Headmistress."  
  
"Is this your idea of a joke, Becca?" Aba asked, eyes narrowing slightly.  
  
"No! No, I swear, I didn't know anything about this at all," Becca said hastily.  
  
"One of your friends."  
  
"None of them has enough imagination. Besides, how could anyone train a live owl to fly in and drop it?"  
  
"I don't know, but... Magic?" Ima said, confused.  
  
"What can we do?" Aba asked.  
  
"We can wait until nine o' clock tomorrow," Becca said, in a helpful tone.  
  
"Quiet!"  
  
"All right, all right." The dinner was finished in silence, with the letter sitting accusingly on the table between them.  
  
*  
  
Tom glanced over his shoulder to make sure that none of the orphanage staff were present before slipping the window open. It creaked uncertainly, and he was hard put not to jump. No one noticed, however, and he smiled lightly. Heaving his body onto the sill, Tom balanced precariously on the ledge, steadying himself before gripping hold of the stones above the window. He lifted himself up, and, from there, was able to shinny up onto the roof. Tom was agile for his age, and quick, and managed to settle comfortably onto the shingles. He lay back and stared up at the sky, blue and dotted with clouds.  
  
He did this, sometimes, when the oppressive atmosphere below grew too much to handle. Up on the roof, there were no mocking faces or voices, only the air and the clouds and the birds. Sometimes, he would see cats leaping lightly over the ceiling of the city, and would nod at them courteously. Cats and snakes compelled respect, as humans did not. Speaking of which ... The Hogwarts letter should be arriving soon. Although Tom was not by nature a worrier, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. He /had/ to be a wizard. He /had/ to. If he wasn't...  
  
He could not bear living in the orphanage any longer. If he wasn't a wizard then he'd have to take matters into his own hands. And, Tom thought sardonically, those matters were not likely to be pleasant ones.  
  
Perhaps he had dozed off, but was soon awakened by something hooting in a concerned manner and poking him in the stomach with sharp claws. "Ouch!" Tom exclaimed, so startled that he almost rolled off of the roof completely, and was only saved by quick reflexes and a protruding shingle. The owl sitting beside him frowned reproachfully and jerked its head sideways to indicate a letter resting next to it. Tom's dark eyes fell upon it and, gradually, a wide, slightly goofy smile spread across his serious features.  
  
"Mr. T. M. Riddle," it read, "The Roof, Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children, London," and on it was emblazoned the purple seal of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
*  
  
Nine o' clock could not come soon enough for Rebecca Greenburn, who lay awake in her bed, too excited to sleep, listening to her parents argue about the letter. It was a dream come to life, truly, for she had always dreamed that there might be some vestige of the fantastic left in the world and here – here she found that she was a wizard, with magic all her own! Not for one moment did she doubt the validity of the letter. Of course it was not a hoax. How could it be? Something within her quivered with excitement and reverberated with the truth.  
  
Her parents, on the other hand, were not so convinced. It worried them no end that the letter might be a fake, but worried them even more that it was true. Both of them were observant Jews, if not quite Orthodox, they were most certainly the next step below. The idea that a member of their family could work magic was completely against their belief system. Though they fretted that Becca's hopes might be raised accidentally, they were even more anguished that perhaps it might really occur.  
  
Becca, in her room, was completely oblivious to all this, lost in her own thoughts.  
  
*  
  
Leah Greenburn paced the living room, biting her lip. "Israel, do you have any idea what this might mean? If it is true, our daughter will go away – far away— Oh, Israel, I just don't know what to do!"  
  
He was slumped in a chair, staring thoughtfully into the distance. Israel Greenburn was taking the news better than his wife was; his fingers rested below his chin as he pondered the future. "It is anathema to Judaism," he said softly, "But perhaps it will not be such a bad thing? It does not mean that Becca will turn from her faith, but what she will gain from this is – is immeasurable."  
  
"I don't care!" Leah screamed, "Israel, we are going to lose our child! Do you understand that?"  
  
In the kitchen, Gideon woke abruptly and began to cry. His wails made the clamor in the living room even worse, and Israel winced and covered his face with his hands. "Love, I understand completely. I do. But look at the clock – it's a minute to nine." They both watched as the minute hand, then the hour hand, swung around to land silently on the 9. And nothing happened. Leah was in the middle of breathing a long sigh of relief when suddenly, a man appeared in the center of the room. With a shriek, she jumped backwards, hand over her mouth.  
  
He was tall, with red-auburn hair and the beginning of a beard. Glasses perched on the edge of his nose, and he smiled faintly as he took in the surprise of the two Muggles before him. "Hello," he said in a friendly, casual tone of voice, "I apologize for my tardiness." And as Leah Greenburn crumpled to the floor in a dead faint, he glanced curiously at her husband before moving to help her up. "I'm sorry, was it something I said?"  
  
*  
  
Magnified and sanctified be the great name of God,  
in the world created according to the divine will.  
May God's sovereignty soon be established, in  
our lifetime and that of the entire house of Israel.  
And let us say: Amen. 


	2. In Which There are Introductions

Disclaimer: I don't own any of J. K.'s characters, which you can probably figure out for yourself. Meh.  
  
  
  
  
London, England, 1937  
He hid the letter beneath his shirt, wanting to hold the crinkling parchment close to his skin where he could feel it, where it would be something more than a dream and an idea. Although it itched terribly after a moment, Tom did not mind in the least. It was all he could do not to grin like an idiot and dance around in circles. Of course, that was out of the question, as the Muggles in the orphanage would surely notice, and he'd probably fall from the roof besides. Instead, he slid down the shingles so quickly that he accidentally skinned his back and the backs of his legs. Cursing softly to himself, Tom wobbled nervously on the edge of the window, finally tumbling back into the room.  
  
"What were you doing?" drawled a voice from the door.  
  
"None of your business, Hawley," Tom said coldly.  
  
"You know you're not supposed to leave the building without permission," the other orphan replied. Eustace Hawley was a little shorter than Tom, but much stockier. He had blond hair that was plastered to his head and his cheeks were red from repeated scrubbings. "Maybe I should tell Stoner where you were?" Tom considered him a lower life form, though the boy was not unintelligent. Maybe his vile disposition came from his unfortunate choice of name, but Tom knew from experience that Eustace Hawley was as miserable a boy as could be found in the Cheapside. Besides that, he told tales to Mr. Stoner, one of the directors.  
  
"I'll thrash you if you do," Tom said, injecting just a touch of bravado into his words.  
  
"You? Don't make me laugh, Riddle," Hawley laughed. "You know – I think I'll go tell Stoner right now." He turned to leave, and was almost out the door before Tom, suddenly reckless, jumped at him, knocking him to the ground and punching the other boy in the face.  
  
There was a momentary scuffle as each strived for dominance, and Tom received a black eye for his trouble. Despite that minor setback, it gave him an immense feeling of satisfaction to see that Hawley's nose was bleeding profusely. It looked as though he was going to get the better of Hawley, for the first time in his life, until a scratchy voice shrieked at him. "Thomas Marvolo Riddle! Eustace Hawley! What are you doing? Stop that this instant, you disgusting boys!"  
  
"It's Tom," he muttered sullenly as he was hauled to his feet.  
  
Hawley's face was pale but blotched with blood from his nose and bruises already rising on his chubby face. "Mrs. Sawyer, he started it, it was all Riddle, I was just minding my own—"  
  
"Liar!" Tom exclaimed, incensed.  
  
"I don't care who started it!" Mrs. Sawyer, the matron, yelled; dealing each boy a hefty box to the ears. She was a large woman, who looked as though she had spent most of her adult life either hitting someone or drinking – her nose had the bright berry red so common to those fond of "Needle and Pin" – or, as a Cockney would tell you, gin. Her entire frame sagged, as though worn out by constantly bearing children, one of whom worked in the orphanage. "I would hope that after eight years you would have learned some civilization. I suppose that's all we can expect of you orphans! Filth!"  
  
Tom glared wordlessly at her, with an expression so vehement in its intense dislike that Mrs. Sawyer actually stumbled in her harangue. For his pains, Tom received another slap to the face, a backhand from a ringed finger that split his lip. He licked the blood experimentally from his mouth, forcing himself not to gag at the metallic coppery taste that flooded his tongue. Thank god for the Hogwarts letter. Oh thank god.   
  
"What are you looking so vague for, Riddle?" Mrs. Sawyer demanded, "But I suppose we can't expect you to use the few brains God felt fit to give you."  
  
Thank god for the Hogwarts letter.  
  
*  
  
"You – you—" Israel stuttered.  
  
"Apparated?" the wizard supplied pleasantly, still smiling benignly in the other man's general direction. At least there was one person in the room still acting relatively sane, even if he was the one who had suddenly appeared in the middle of the room and was supporting a fainting woman on one arm. "Do you mind helping me, please?" he said, a bit reprovingly, once he found that Israel Greenburn would, if left to his own devices, continue to gape at him in indefinite amazement.  
  
"Yes—certainly—" Israel said, coming to life once more. He crossed quickly to the auburn-headed man and helped him deposit Leah into one of the comfortably overstuffed armchairs. She sat there for what seemed an eternity, dazed, blinking, and generally shell shocked. "Who are you?" he asked finally, though 'what are you' trembled on the tip of his tongue. Israel Greenburn was, if nothing else, very polite. And that was all that he said.  
  
"I," said the stranger, "Am Albus Dumbledore. I teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts."  
  
By now Leah had revived somewhat and they both stared wordlessly at him. The last sentence had made no sense whatsoever to their practical minds, but Leah stood and, very pale, said, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore. Would you like a cup of tea?" It did not seem an unreasonable request, though her voice trembled on the verge of hysterics.  
  
Albus Dumbledore smiled gently. "No, thank you. I wouldn't want to be a bother."  
  
Be a bother? The man had practically sprouted from the living room floor, but he did not want to be a bother. Right. Israel could deal with that. "Should I call in Becca?" he asked uncertainly. It sounded tinny and artificial.  
  
"That would be ideal, yes."  
  
"Right. One moment...." Leah walked slowly to the door that led into the kitchen and turned the knob to open it. Apparently Becca had been listening to the entire time, for when the door swung backwards, she toppled forwards. Albus Dumbledore broke into delighted laughter.  
  
"Ah, a student with initiative! Any one of our Houses would be please."  
  
Becca watched the man carefully, fully conscious that he was the first person with magic that she had ever seen. He did not, at first glance, seem to be anyone unduly special, but on second – there was a hard light to his pale blue eyes that captivated both the soul and the imagination. If all wizards were like the Dumbledore-man, than Becca was quite pleased to be a part of that word. "Mr. Dumbledore? How do you do," she said, extending her hand calmly, while her parents surveyed her as though she'd grown an extra arm.  
  
Did they honestly expect her to stare and stumble, as they were doing so adeptly? She hoped not, and did not plan to. It was depressing to watch them. Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed pleased that she slipped so effortlessly into coolness. He shook her hand lightly, and gestured towards the chairs. "Perfectly fine, Miss Greenburn, and I hope this day finds you well."  
  
She grinned suddenly and he, guessing the reason for her sudden good humor, smiled as well. "Fortuitous, indeed. Perhaps we might have a seat?" Obediently, her parents slumped into the chairs and continued to stare at Dumbledore. They seemed to half-expect him to rush forward, foaming at the mouth, and savagely maul them all to death. "That's better. Now.... Most undoubtedly, you have many questions about magic in general, and what your daughter is."  
  
Leah nodded, and glanced at her daughter, worried. Becca's dark eyes focused desperately on Dumbledore, and she leaned forward slightly in her seat, listening with every shred of attention that she had. The look of pure determination on Becca's face was recognizable, and Leah sighed, for she recognized it as the child at her most mule-headed and stubborn. This, she feared, was not a good sign.  
  
"Magic has always been present in the human race, from the very first. Some wizards like to say that magic is what separates us from the animals, though personally, I am not of that opinion. In any event, some people are born with the ability, and some are not. Your daughter is one of the former. Magic enables one to do many things that would seem miraculous to you, but are child's play to a wizard. This magic ability is mostly latent until around the age of eleven, though it does show in extreme moments of emotion – it would be a safe guess to hazard that strange things happen when Becca is upset?"  
  
Although Leah dearly would have loved to shake her head in denial, Becca herself spoke up. "Yes. Once, when I got my dress dirty, Ima threatened to spank me— You, did, Ima, don't shake your head at me. And when Gideon wouldn't stop crying and I couldn't sleep, the lamps in the hallway exploded."  
  
"You see?" Dumbledore said, still with that same gentle smile, "All the signs. To continue with my lecture.... There are many schools of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the world, but among them, Hogwarts stands out as a truly excellent house of education; we have extremely high standards. Questions, so far?"  
  
They shook their heads mutely, and he continued. The clock ticked quietly in the background, as the Greenburn family was given its introduction into the world of magic.  
  
*  
  
Tom Marvolo Riddle had a problem.  
  
Despite the fact that he was hungry and bleeding, he also had to find some way to get out of the orphanage and into Diagon Alley in order to buy his school supplies. Mr. Stoner was watching him hawkishly, as was Mrs. Sawyer. He could not even slip out the window and onto the roof, and Hawley was plotting revenge, Tom could tell. That, however, did not affect the fact that he needed desperately to get out of the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children and somehow find entrance into the magical world. He did not know how to get to Diagon Alley, or how to slip through the tenuous barrier between the Two Londons.  
  
A Tale of Two Cities. He rather liked that pun-type thing.  
  
Tom supposed that the teachers at Hogwarts couldn't bother to find out more information on their students, and so he'd be stuck in the Home instead of going to school – the unfairness of it all was enough to make Tom want to scream with rage, or maybe just beat that little shit Hawley into the ground. Suddenly, a tickling sensation on his leg caused him to sit up on his cot, startled. There was a small brown spider crawling over his foot, one of the compact furry ones. With a yelp of disgust, he brushed it away onto the ground and crushed it with his shoe.  
  
It wriggled in pain gushing spider guts all over the floor in spurts, and he sighed, and decided to put it out of its misery. Tom stepped on it again, until the thing stopped moving. He had always hated spiders. They had too many legs.  
  
There were no other boys in the room, they had all been allowed to go outside and enjoy the sun. Tom was being punished, however, for punching Hawley. He flipped over onto his stomach and stared at the floor, fully prepared to spend the afternoon looking aimlessly off into space. But then – the door opened, and a voice said, curiously, "Tom?" Surprised at the sudden appearance of a voice, and a friendly-sounding one at that, Tom looked up to see Mrs. Sawyer's son standing in the doorway.  
  
"Mr. Sawyer?" he said, scrambling to his feet.  
  
"No, you can sit down," Mr. Sawyer said. He was a short man, with the same stocky body as his mother, and scruffy looking sand-colored hair and dark brown eyes. However, his round face was tempered not by alcohol but by a vaguely kind expression of sympathy. He looked as though he was constantly feeling sorry for the world, a state that had not caused him to appeal to Tom at all. Tom had no patience for philanthropy, unless of course it was being applied to him. "I – look, have you gotten your letter from Hogwarts yet?"  
  
Whatever he had expected Mr. Sawyer to say, that was /not/ it. "You're a – /you're/ a wizard?"  
  
"That would seem to be the case," Mr. Sawyer said dryly.  
  
"Is /Mrs. Sawyer/ a witch?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Thank god."  
  
"That is my mother you're talking about, Riddle."  
  
"Sorry, sir."  
  
"Now, unless you have any objections, I believe you need to get to Diagon Alley?"  
  
"Yes," said Tom, then muttered something under his breath.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"I said, 'Some fairy godmother you make.'"  
  
"Ah, the famous Riddle sarcasm is revealed. Well, try not to flay me too much on this trip, hmm? It's your only way out."  
  
"Mr. Sawyer?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Can you turn Hawley into a pumpkin?"  
  
"Unfortunately, no. Come on, Riddle, let's get you some school books."  
  
"Maybe he'd make a better rat."  
  
"You know, I think I preferred you when you were being the Byronic moping type. Chatty-Tom is just too strange."  
  
Tom, against his will, grinned suddenly. "Point taken. I'll come quietly."  
  
Mr. Sawyer smiled placidly, as though he had expected this all along. "Good, that makes it easier for both of us. I had no desire to drag you kicking and screaming. Follow me."  
  
*  
  
He had so rarely been outside the orphanage that he gawked at the bustling city around him, rubbernecking the scenery around him. This caused Mr. Sawyer a great deal of amusement. "Put your eyes back into your skull, young Riddle." Although being called 'young Riddle' rankled him, Tom realized suddenly that he was going to have to be nice to authority figures at least some of the time. It was an insight that was not particularly appealing.  
  
Since Mr. Sawyer's mother was a Muggle, he knew the correct way to act, and they did not attract any untoward attention. Tom was still trying to get over the fact that a man he had known for almost his entire life was a wizard, but the disbelief faded as Mr. Sawyer led him to a very grubby looking pub, called 'The Leaky Cauldron.' Tom, almost as tall as Mr. Sawyer, found that the doorway was rather low, but had no trouble passing below it.  
  
Inside was a riot of activity, even this early in the morning. Tom examined his surroundings curiously as Mr. Sawyer struck up a conversation with a pretty, black-haired witch that he seemed to know very well. The bar was low ceilinged, though it led into a larger, brighter room through a door. Stairs headed upwards, and Tom supposed that the Leaky Cauldron was an inn as well as a tavern. There was a brightly polished mirror that stretched behind the bar, and glasses hung from pegs in the ceiling. Tables of different sizes and shapes were squashed into the little space that was available, with chairs ranging from three-legged stools to very elaborate leather covered armchairs. Behind the bar, an old man cleaned glasses, while a boy, approximately seven years old, ran errands.  
  
"Hoy! Tom! Over here," grunted the bar tender, and Tom, blinked, glancing up. That was when he realized that the man was speaking to the busboy, who must also have been named Tom.  
  
"Tom? Thanks for waiting," Mr. Sawyer said, sounding relieved that his charge had not run off or done something horrible.  
  
"No problem at all," Tom said, "I wouldn't want you to miss time with your girlfriend."  
  
"Althea? She's – she's not my girlfriend."  
  
"Whatever you say, Mr. Sawyer. Can we get my supplies now, please?"  
  
"Of course," he said, sounding a bit miffed. "But first, we have to go to Gringotts and get some money out of your vault."  
  
"Money?" Tom said blankly, "I don't have any money."  
  
"Not in the Muggle world, you don't. Your mother left you a tidy little fortune, however. She.... was from a very old wizarding family."  
  
"Oh," said Tom, because he did not know what else to say. Although speaking of his mother still hurt, it no longer caused him to curl up in a ball and want to cry. He liked to have control over his own feelings. He didn't have control over anything else that happened to him, sadly enough.  
  
"Right," said Mr. Sawyer, brusquely. He never knew quite what to make of Tom Riddle. The boy was just as his name described, a puzzle.  
  
"Where are we going first?" Tom asked, trying not to sound too eager. "After Gringotts, I mean."  
  
"Let's go to the bank first, and then we'll see. Don't worry, Tom, we'll see everything."  
  
For the second time in a week, Tom Riddle felt like dancing.  
  
*  
  
The goblins exuded cunning, and Tom found himself feeling uncomfortable around them. It bothered him, that reaction, and expressed his annoyance by acting rather more curt and gruff than he'd meant to. To his shock, his vault was shoved almost full with gold, silver, and bronze – Mr. Sawyer had not been exaggerating when he said that Eva Riddle had left her son a "tidy fortune."  
  
They visited some of the other shops, once Mr. Sawyer had counted out carefully the number of coins. Tom wanted to spend more time in the bookstore, but the orphanage employee shook his head. "You can visit again later, Tom, I can't spend all day here."  
  
Tom, mutinous, glared at the sidewalk until they reached Madam Malkin's Robe shop. The witch in question was a frizzy-haired blonde, slightly plump, with a welcoming smile. She had several assistants bustling around the shop to help her. "Hello, dear," she said, as Mr. Sawyer deposited Tom inside, "You'll have to wait a few moments, I'm very sorry. It's so busy this time of year!" Despite his natural inclination towards disliking people, Tom found that he was warming to her, and smiled in return.  
  
There were three other children waiting on the bench, while Madam Malkin and her assistants were measuring two more. There were two boys and a girl. One boy had brown-black hair and wide glasses that made his brown eyes seem even larger, and the other one was blond, pale, and languid looking. The girl was freckled, with black hair and a very interested expression touching deep chocolate eyes. "Hello!" she said immediately as he sat, "I'm Becca, what's your name?"  
  
He hesitated, and sat down next to her, the only spot left on the bench. "Tom. Tom Riddle."  
  
"What kind of a name is Riddle?" the blond boy asked scornfully.  
  
"Whatever kind of name it is, it's a lot better than Malfoy. And on that same note, what parent would name their kid 'Janus.'"  
  
"/My/ parents, Potter." The two boys clearly hated each other, though Tom thought that the pale boy probably hated everyone who didn't fit his idea of high society.  
  
"They'll keep going on like that," whispered the girl Becca.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter, it's your turn," said one of the assistants, sighing as she saw the looks the two boys shot at each other.  
  
Tom shook his head sadly, glancing out the window.  
  
"You're /so/ polite," the girl said sarcastically.  
  
"What?" Tom asked, genuinely startled.  
  
"I'm not going to put all the work into the conversation, you know."  
  
Tom blinked at her, and suddenly wondered if all witches were crazy. He decided it would be wiser to say nothing, for now. He waited uncomfortably until they were called up to be measured for robes. Why would she worry about being polite? It didn't get anyone anywhere, being polite. "You're not very polite, either," he told the girl Becca as she held her arms out to the side, watching the tape measure as it slid along her limbs.  
  
"What are you talking about?" Becca demanded, affronted.  
  
"You're not. You're just as sarcastic as.... Oh. As Janus Malfoy?"  
  
She stuck her tongue out at him. "How dare you compare me to him? He called me a Mudblood, whatever that's supposed to mean...."  
  
"It's an unimaginative insult for Muggle-born wizards. You're Muggle?"  
  
"I'm a /witch/," she corrected sternly, "But my parents aren't."  
  
"Which makes you a Mudblood, in the eyes of people like Malfoy."  
  
"That's not fair!" she said.  
  
"'Life isn't fair,'" Tom quoted.  
  
"I'll make him sorry he called me that," she muttered darkly, causing Tom to look at her in surprise. He wouldn't have expected a /girl/ to express such vindictive feelings, especially since they were basically what he was thinking about that git Hawley. She hopped from the chair once the assistant was finished with her. "I'll see you later, Tom."  
  
"Yeah," he said, sounding dubious, "Maybe."  
  
"Did you make any new friends?" Mr. Sawyer asked cheerfully, once Tom left the shop, waving over his shoulder to Madam Malkin.  
  
There was no adequate response for this but a glare.  
  
*  
  
"Muggle-born?" the man said.  
  
"Yes, Mr. Ollivander." Why did everyone ask that?  
  
"Right or left handed?"  
  
"Right handed."  
  
"Try this." He thrust a wand at her. "Mahogany and unicorn hair, perhaps an odd combination, but maybe it'll do. Six inches."  
  
Becca frowned at it. It was really a beautiful peace of art, but when she picked it up, it was just as quickly snatched from her hands. "Next," said Ollivander, sounding pleased, "Willow and dragon-heartstring, thirteen inches – no, that's too long for you, give it back." This continued on for what seemed like hours, to her. A pile of wands was growing steadily on the table, when the bell at the door tinkled softly, and the boy from the robes shop, Tom Riddle, entered. He sighed when he saw her, and she rolled her eyes.  
  
"You'll have to wait, Mr. Riddle, I'm interviewing a client at the moment." A client? This cemented her original idea that Ollivander was a nutcase.  
  
The boy Tom was gaping at Ollivander. "How – how did you know my name?"  
  
"You look like your mother. Now hush, if you please."  
  
He handed her another wand. "Birch and unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches." She picked it up and smiled – this felt /right/. Warmth tingling through her hand, she flicked the wand, and gasped as tiny dragonflies burst from the end of it in a scintillating pattern. "Very good, very good," Ollivander said, with one of his faraway smiles. She paid for the wand, and left, glancing at the pale, black-haired boy sitting in the chair to wait his turn.  
  
*  
  
"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Mr. Ollivander said, snapping out the words.  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
"You can try some of the wands that the Greenburn child couldn't use, or I can get you new boxes from the back."  
  
Mr. Sawyer poked his head into the store, and smiled in relief. "Tom! You were supposed to wait."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sawyer. I know you wanted to talk to Althea," Tom said innocently.  
  
Mr. Ollivander gave the both of them a shrewd look as Mr. Sawyer flushed. "Enough chatter, Mr. Riddle. You will try these wands, now."  
  
'You will.' Not 'do you want to try the wands?' Tom decided that he didn't like Mr. Ollivander, the man was obviously quite bossy and full of himself. Shrugging, he began to reach for one of the discarded wands, something that looked like oak. "No, no!" Mr. Ollivander said, snatching the wand away before he could even reach it. Tom sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon....  
  
*  
  
Twenty-seven wands later, Tom was beginning to get exasperated. "Patience," said Mr. Ollivander, but all Mr. Sawyer did was snore lightly from his vantagepoint in the chair. "Hmm – try this!" he said, "Yew and phoenix feather, twelve and three quarter inches long."  
  
Tom grabbed at it before the batty old coot could pull it away once more. He flicked his wrist, and there was a feeling of /power/ that there had not been in any of the other wands. From the front of the length of wood exploded the shimmering figure of a green skull, moving forward at such momentum that it actually surrounded Mr. Ollivander in a cloud of emerald smoke before the man coughed and waved it away with his own wand. Tom lowered his arm to find the wand-merchant staring at him oddly.  
  
"I think we can expect things.... great things from you...."  
  
And perhaps it was just Tom's imagination, but Ollivander looked worried. 


	3. Illusions of Freedom

Becca was in the kitchen, playing with Gideon. It struck her that it would be the last time she'd spend with him for quite some time, at least until the winter vacations. Her brother was a chubby baby, with a constant sweet smile and a penchant for mischief: he'd hug you one moment and spit up mashed carrots onto your shirt the next. Today, however, he seemed to sense that something was wrong and tugged harder than usual on Becca's hair. She extricated herself from his pudgy grip, wincing as he pulled out several strands of brown hair.  
  
All her essentials were packed, shoved into two middle-sized suitcases. One held clothes, the other books and school things. It had been somewhat difficult to fit the cauldron in, but she'd managed, and saved space by placing the basic potions ingredients (Becca had been amused to find that leg of newt and eye of frog really /were/ used in magic, though not in large quantities) inside the pewter bowl. The Hogwarts uniform was a black robe, worn either open or closed, and students were allowed to wear Muggle clothing beneath it, if they wished. Becca wasn't much of a clotheshorse, and most of that suitcase was filled with books.  
  
In a small white metal cage next to the suitcases was her familiar, an extremely tiny, plump hamster. Its name was Timothy, Tiny Tim for short. He was running futilely in a wheel, plump little feet racing ahead of him, but the wheel turned inexorably. At least it was exercise, Becca thought, and she hoped Tiny Tim didn't mind it very much.  
  
"Ka?" Gideon asked, ingenuous face knotting in concern.  
  
"Yes, Giddy?" She wasn't really expecting an answer. Gideon, though ready enough with smiles and burbles, was not usually very talkative.  
  
"Ka!" he said, and giggled, waving his arms in the air.  
  
"Becca?" Ima asked, leaning against the door and watching her children. "It's time for Gideon to go to bed. You can play with him again tomorrow morning, before you leave—" Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked down at the tiled kitchen floor.  
  
"I'll be fine, Ima, and I'll write you – the school's got owls that students can use if they need them...."  
  
"I know you'll be fine, darling," Ima said, with an attempt at a brave little smile. Becca sighed, and mentally smacked herself in the forehead. She had never seen the side of her mother that dissolved into tears like this, and she did not like it at all. It was a slightly traitorous thought, but her mother seemed downright.... weak. It wasn't as though Becca was disappearing forever, it was only a change – and, she thought, a change for the better. "But I'll still miss you," her mother was saying.  
  
"I know, Ima, I'll miss you too." Impulsively, she walked to her mother and hugged her around the waist. Leah Greenburn wrapped her arms around her daughter, clutching her close. It was as though she feared letting go, that if she opened the protective circle of limbs Becca might suddenly fly away and escape. Becca sighed again. It was going to be a long night.  
  
*  
  
The orphanage staff did not know what to make of the abrupt change in the character of one Tom M. Riddle.  
  
He had turned from a sarcastic and rather sullen boy to one who smiled constantly. When, to punish him for eating his dinner to slowly, Mrs. Sawyer cuffed him on the ear, she was disconcerted to find that instead of glaring defiance, Tom merely smiled. And smiled some more. Though she hated to admit it, the grin frightened her more than any evil glower ever could.  
  
Tom was called to Mrs. Sawyer's office that evening, but even the possibility of a whipping did not dampen his spirits. After all, he was leaving the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children in a little less than fourteen hours, to inherit his mother's world. He nervously flattened his hair down before knocking on the door; Mrs. Sawyer was notoriously strict about personal appearance. "Come in!" snapped a voice roughened by nicotine and cigars, which she chewed whole and swallowed.  
  
Biting nervously at his lip (which was still purple and scabbed from his last encounter with Mrs. Sawyer), Tom put his hand on the doorknob, hesitating. "I told you, boy, come in /now/!" Mrs. Sawyer growled. Tom complied hurriedly, and swung the door open. Mrs. Sawyer was sitting at her desk, and her son was standing beside it. He smiled benignly at Tom, a smile that Tom did not return. His previous good spirits had evaporated somewhat when faced with the evil-smelling reality of the matron.  
  
"Jonathan has informed me that you have been accepted to a private boarding school for orphans, Riddle." Mr. Sawyer's eyes twinkled at him from over his mother's head, and Tom thought it a very good thing she could not see her son's expression.  
  
"Yes ma'am," he said flatly. A private boarding school for orphans. Well. If that's what Mr. Sawyer wanted to say, Tom could play along.  
  
"Though I don't see what could have made them do such a stupid thing, I am going to let you go. You're to be at King's Cross tomorrow at nine, to catch the train."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he said.  
  
"That is all. You may pack your things." He nodded. "Don't bob your head at me, you little snake!" Tom thought that being called a snake wasn't such a bad thing – snakes were beautiful in their grace. But somehow he got the idea that Mrs. Sawyer did not mean it as a compliment. "Get out of my sight. The sooner you're at that school the better."  
  
As he left the office, Mr. Sawyer murmured in his ear. "I've had your things sent to the school already. All you need to pack are your clothes and your wand."  
  
Tom found it momentarily impossible to say thank you.  
  
He couldn't sleep that night, and, until dawn, counted the cracks on the ceiling, which he had long ago memorized. One became fifty-five.... Fifty-five became two hundred-eight.... And gradually, too, the night made its transformation to light.  
  
*  
  
He must have dozed off for a minute, just a second, because the harsh jangle of the wake-up bell startled him. One minute. He couldn't even get one damn minute of sleep.... Tom, disoriented, was about to ignore the bell and wait until Mrs. Sawyer shook him out of bed when he remembered – the train left today! Suddenly, it seemed much more important to hurry up. He tumbled out of bed and pulled on pants and shirt, hastily shoved his feet into his shoes. Muttering dire curses under his breath, Tom began tying the laces, but then gave up, grabbed his bags, and rushed out the door and down the stairs, shoelaces streaming behind him.  
  
*  
  
There would be no breakfast today. Mr. Sawyer had given him some pocket money to buy food on the train, and then he had left. Tom thought sardonically that the elder wizard had probably caught sight of his girlfriend Althea. Typical, to leave a boy here, confused and alone.... Not, of course, that he /wanted/ Sawyer around. Tom could do just fine on his own, thank you very much. After watching the barrier between platforms nine and ten, he figured out easily enough how to make his way through. Leaning nonchalantly against the railing, Tom was nonetheless startled when he dropped backward.  
  
Picking himself up off the ground, he dusted the legs of his trousers (which were too short – Tom outgrew clothes at a speed that astonished and irritated the orphanage – keeping him in clothes almost wasn't worth the trouble) and surveyed Platform 9 ¾. It was a hive of wizards and witches and their children, yelling parents and crying babies, and some prospective students shedding tears as well. Tom felt nothing but contempt for those few, the weaklings. Ahead of him, resting in the bed of the railroad tracks, was the dignified scarlet shell of the Hogwarts Express. It sat puffing a gentle stream of smoke into the air, mysterious noises rumbling in its interior.  
  
Fascinated, he crept closer to the great beast, examining it with a curious dark sapphire-blue eye. Amazing. It was a relic of the past, and yet it fit correctly into its place. The very anachronism enchanted him, and it was a few seconds before he snapped out of his trance and actually stepped aboard the wonderful metal creation. Inside it looked the same as the normal railroad cars did, though maybe a bit nicer – the halls were carpeted with green plush, and the walls and ceiling were painted with a mural depicting the Hogwarts grounds and the Forbidden Forest.  
  
Tom carried his tiny black bag over his shoulder, and set off down the corridor in search of an empty compartment. His search netted little, until he had almost reached the end of the train. There was a drawing of a calm forest clearing. Tom was rapidly finding out things about the wizard-world, and one of them was that pictures moved. Here, a two dimensional unicorn lapped quietly at an oil-brushed lake, and galloped away hurriedly when Tom walked by. Shrugging, he decided to try that compartment and, to his delight, it was completely empty.  
  
The compartment, compared to the spectacular living painting of the hallway, was rather plain. The walls were a dull tan and looked as though generations of children had thrown drinks and food at them, and tried their utter best to destroy the seats. As Tom sat down on the bench nearest the window, he noticed stuffing leaking from the seat opposite him. He gradually became lost in daydreams of what school would be like. Suddenly a voice startled him from his thoughts. "Sorry, can I sit here? There's no room at all; I was late...." The voice, nastily familiar, trailed off as the speaker noticed the occupant of the compartment.  
  
"Oh," said Eustace Hawley, "It's you."  
  
"/Hawley/?" Tom exclaimed, completely dumbfounded, "/You're/ – you can't be—"  
  
"/Riddle/," Hawley spat. "I /knew/ Sawyer was hiding something—"  
  
"You knew no such thing," Tom replied, glaring, "So don't try and pretend you did." His left hand, in his pocket, rested lightly on his wand.  
  
"Fine," snapped Hawley, "There's no way I'm sitting here with you, you little slimeball. I'll find somewhere else."  
  
"First time in your life you've done me a favor," Tom said icily, and then, "Goodbye."  
  
It looked as though Hawley was going to say something else, but he swallowed his words and stalked from the room. Tom, still filled with rage, sat there for a long minute and attempted to control his breathing. He couldn't /believe/ it! It wasn't fair! How dare Hawley go and be a wizard? Tom had been looking forward to escaping from the clutches of the Muggle world, but it seemed as though the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children was determined to dog him until the end of his days. He glared out through the window and watched the Potter boy hugging his parents goodbye.  
  
It was just sickening, the whole day. His triumphant arrival at Hogwarts would be dimmed by the fact that Hawley was there, too. Tom couldn't believe it. Lost in that morose train of thought, he didn't even notice when other children entered the room and sat.  
  
He was once again jarred from his thoughts by voices, one rather argumentative, and one defensive. "What are you doing?" demanded the first voice. It belonged to a darkly handsome boy with shockingly light green eyes. He did not, in Tom's opinion, look particularly smart. The child, a first year by lack of any House insignia on his uniform, was staring accusingly at another firstie.  
  
"I'm not doing anything," the second child said heatedly, in a thick Scottish accent. He had a very pink complexion, and his hair was so pale that it took a similar tinge to his skin. His eyes were a muddy sort of light hazel, entirely unremarkable, and the lines of his face were round without being plump. There was something strange about his mouth, it turned down slightly at one corner, as though he was constantly worrying. Tom noticed that the boy's fingers were twitching in a convulsive pattern. His hand was clenched so tightly that the knuckles were white, and his thumb twisted around and around the first finger.  
  
It wasn't that remarkable, Tom thought, except for the fact that the boy had been doing the same thing for fifteen consecutive minutes.  
  
"Yes, you are. Stop twisting your hand like that. It's annoying me," the first boy said, handsome face frowning a little.  
  
The pale boy's pink face flushed a deeper shade of sanguine. "Leave me alone."  
  
"I'm just asking you a simple question; why are you holding your hand like that? It looks like it hurts."  
  
"I said leave me alone," the boy said softly, mumbling.  
  
"What did you say?" the first child asked, obviously not about to leave the poor boy alone.  
  
"Isn't that enough?" Tom demanded, "I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day."  
  
The dark boy noticed him for the first time. Tom sighed – people were so /stupid/ sometimes. They didn't even notice if you were sitting in a corner, if you weren't saying anything. You didn't count until you offered your own dumb opinion that they could disagree with. "What?" he asked. Tom rolled his eyes, this boy was a real genius, obviously. A regular Voltaire.  
  
"I said, 'I think you've embarrassed him enough for one day.'"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," the dark boy said. Oddly enough, he really did seem sorry. Tom, rather incredulously, concluded that the boy hadn't realized the discomfort he was causing the hand-twisting boy (who incidentally was still turning his thumb around and around the index finger. Tom was surprised they couldn't hear the knuckles cracking.) The dark boy was speaking again. "What are your names, then? Mine's Martin Shaw."  
  
"Braden Baird Campbell," said the salmon-pink boy, fingers still twitching.  
  
"Tom Riddle."  
  
"Pleased to meet you, Thomas."  
  
"Tom."  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
"My name isn't Thomas. It's Tom."  
  
"Fine. Riddle, than."  
  
"Whatever your Highness wishes."  
  
"Well, there's no need to be rude!"  
  
Tom chose to ignore him. He sighed and leaned back against the squashy chair back. It was going to be a long ride.  
  
*  
  
Israel drove Becca to the train station, because Leah did not know how to use a car, and also because she couldn't bear to say goodbye to Becca again. Israel had pushed his glasses all the way to the very bridge of his nose, which was a sure sign of agitation. Attempting to reassure him, despite the fact that her nerves were jangling as well, Becca patted her father on the arm. He smiled down at her, though it was a sad smile. "It's not like you're losing me forever," she said as they pulled into King's Cross, "I'll be home during the holidays, and summer."  
  
"I know," Israel said, with another smile. He took loss better than Leah did. "But we'll miss you anyway, Becca. We love you."  
  
"I know," Becca repeated, and looked nervously at the station. "You can't come through the barrier, Mug— non-magic people aren't allowed. I'm sorry."  
  
"That's fine," Israel said, though Becca could tell he was hurt. She hardened her heart – it was no fault of hers, and she was not going to let him make her feel guilty for something that was never her responsibility.  
  
"Well," Becca said brusquely, "I should get going. I want to get my bags set up."  
  
Israel slid out of the car and opened the door for her. Becca laboriously dragged her two suitcases behind her, one in each hand, with Israel bringing up the rear, Tiny Tim's cage in his hand. Some people looked at them oddly, but Becca held her head high and ignored them. "Now, the letter said to lean against the barrier – very casually...." Israel said.  
  
"I /know/, Dad. Here, give me Tim's cage." She balanced the hamster's cage above the lighter bag, the one that had her clothes in it. She leaned against the barriers, backwards, and the last thing she saw was her father's face, watching her, hand held out as if to stop her leaving—  
  
And then, Platform 9 ¾.  
  
*  
  
After a while, once the train was moving and the countryside was streaming past in a long line of moor and occasional scrub bush, Martin Shaw grew tired of the oppressive silence and left the compartment. It was then that Braden Campbell ventured to speak. He had stopped twisting his thumb and looked generally more relaxed. "Um, I guess I should th—"  
  
"Don't bother," Tom said curtly, "It was nothing."  
  
"But—" Braden began, then stopped and shrugged. "Right. Whatever you say." For the first time he smiled, and though it was very infectious, Tom did not smile back. Glumly, Braden thumped his head against the couch cushions. "I'm worried about the Sorting.... I've a feeling I'm going to be sorted into Hufflepuff, but my parents are Gryffindors, and the family's been either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw for centuries. There's a rumor that one of my ancestors was in Slytherin, but I've never seen proof."  
  
Tom warmed a little to this well-meaning child. "My mum was a Slytherin."  
  
"Really?" Braden said, interested. Tom could tell. It wasn't a 'really' that was used to show boredom. Braden sincerely was curious. "What's her name?"  
  
"What was," Tom said, voice dropping several degrees into glacial iciness.  
  
Braden was neither stupid nor deaf, and realized his mistake instantly. "Oh. I'm sorry. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand—"  
  
"Eva," said Tom, with a tiny, ever-so-tiny smile, "Eva Riddle."  
  
*  
  
"Do you need help with your bags?" a voice asked curiously.  
  
"Yes," Becca said, grateful, "Could you just take Tiny Tim for me?"  
  
"Who?" the other girl asked, puzzled. She had a moon-shaped face and beautiful auburn hair.  
  
"I'm sorry," Becca replied, "Tiny Tim is my familiar."  
  
The girl grinned and took the proffered cage, helping Becca into a nearby compartment, behind a cunningly painted willow tree. "I'm Cynthia Murray. Excuse me for saying, but you don't seem very familiar with all of this – are you Muggle-born?"  
  
"Yes," Becca said, sitting down gingerly on a chair that spurted down stuffing, like an artery slashed open. It was rather unnerving and she gently pushed some of it back into the cushion. While she did this, the train began to move, and they were off. She was not feeling particularly talkative, but luckily, Cynthia Murray seemed perfectly happy to take up the slack of the conversation, herself.  
  
"Really? I'm not. My family's pureblood, of course, the Murrays have been in Hogwarts almost since the beginning, which doesn't really mean all that much except that we've got a bunch of dusty old portraits in all the hallways." She made a face. "It's horrible, you've got all these dead people staring at you and yelling whenever you track mud up the stairs."  
  
Becca grinned, half in relief. Perhaps people at this school wouldn't be so horrible after all. "What House d' you think you'll get into?" she asked. It seemed to be a question that was fluttering nervously on the mouths of all the children about to be Sorted.  
  
"Gryffindor, of course," her companion said matter-of-factly, "I told you; all my family've been Gryffindors. I don't think I'm an exception, of course. How about you?"  
  
"Well," Becca said, "I don't really know much about any of them. Professor Dumbledore didn't really elaborate much; he was busy convincing my parents to let me go at all."  
  
Cynthia grinned in sympathy. "Don't worry, it's always a bit difficult for the Muggle-borns to adjust and pick up the wizard culture, but they've been doing it for centuries. It won't be any different for you, I'm sure."  
  
"What are the Houses like?"  
  
"Well, Gryffindors are supposed to be very brave and courageous," Cynthia said, "Professor Dumbledore, who you've met, is a graduate of Gryffindor. He's brilliant, though, and," she said, blushing, "He's cute."  
  
Becca, who hadn't really though that when he came to visit, raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he a little old for you?"  
  
Cynthia blushed brighter and went hurriedly on. "Er – Hufflepuff is the largest House, generally, and lots of people say they're stupid, but that's not it at all. They're very generous, and loyal and they work hard. Headmaster Dippet was a Hufflepuff, in his day. It's an old saying, 'Hufflepuffs make the best friends,' or something, I'm not good at remembering things like that. As a rule Ravenclaws are smart, and bookish – they're boring in my opinion. The deputy head, Calliope Abernathy, was a Ravenclaw. And then," her face darkened, "There's the Slytherins."  
  
"What's wrong with Slytherin, Cynthia?"  
  
"Gosh!" exclaimed the other girl, "You really /don't/ know anything."  
  
"It's not my fault," Becca said, peeved, "I just found out about this a month ago."  
  
"I know," said Cynthia, "But still, it's weird, not knowing any of the Houses—"  
  
"Just tell me what's wrong with the Slytherins, please."  
  
"Sorry. Well – they're – oh gosh, how do I explain? Well.... Slytherin's produced more Dark witches and wizards than the other Houses," her voice dropped mysteriously, and Becca leaned forward to catch the next words. "You-Know-Who is one."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"You know!"  
  
"No, I don't. Who was a Slytherin?"  
  
"I can't say the name!"  
  
"That's silly. Who /is/ it?"  
  
"He's the most evil Dark wizard ever! He's killed loads of people. He's from continental Europe, but his parents had sent him to Hogwarts."  
  
"/Who/?" Becca demanded.  
  
Cynthia looked anguished. "I can't say!"  
  
"Can you write it down?" Becca asked, exasperated.  
  
"Oh," Cynthia said, sounding relieved, "I can do that. She fished around in her backpack and drew out a quill pen and ripped a piece of parchment from a scrap roll. She wrote, in very tiny letters, as though afraid of drawing attention to the word, 'Grindelwald.'  
  
"Grindelwald?" Becca said out loud, puzzled. "What a name—"  
  
"DON'T SAY IT!" Cynthia yelped, "Don't say it! Are you nuts? Here. Eat the paper. I won't feel safe otherwise."  
  
"/Eat/ the—"  
  
But Cynthia was insistent, and after some arguing that it was disgusting and unhealthy to swallow something with ink on it, Becca was chewing and gulping down the tiny slip of paper, looking very unhappy. "That's better," Cynthia said, relieved, "But now you see why Slytherins are bad. They're nasty and they're evil. I wouldn't talk to one unless I had to."  
  
"They can't /all/ be bad people, can they?" Becca asked.  
  
"You never know," Cynthia said darkly, "And I'm not taking that chance."  
  
*  
  
When the sun was high above the train, a tired-looking wizard came by with a cart full of food. Tom, starving and with Mr. Sawyer's money to spend, bought a plate of sandwiches and numerous treats. Braden bought his own and they ate. Martin Shaw commented in a snobbily disbelieving tone about Tom's appetite. Tom, for his part, did not care in the least. They had never fed him enough at the orphanage, and now, with the option of stuffing his stomach put before him, he ate as quickly as possible.  
  
"It's not like anyone's going to /take/ your food," Martin said, munching delicately on a Chocolate Frog.  
  
"Bugger off," Tom said, and returned his attention to lunch.  
  
Time passed. It grew darker, and Tom pressed his face to the window, all cynicism and arrogance gone as he stared up at the sky, unmarred by smoke from the city, stars patched in their sable velvet setting. The bitter-Tom of the day disappeared, and he was merely a wondering child fixated upon the Heavens.  
  
It was, thought Braden Baird Campbell, a remarkable sea-change.  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's Note and Disclaimer: Thanks to everyone who reviewed; Magic Gerbil, Nemesis, BrieflyDel, Yellowsub, CeiQ Reader,and Fhjull... I'm sorry I didn't add that before. :) Ack... Nemesis, you're right, and I apologize for not being entirely accurate. You'll just have to keep reading and correcting, I hope. :P (I am Jewish, yes, though I'm an athiest too. Nice combination, hm?)   
  
I don't think I should write "Les Violons" too soon after reading "The Catcher in the Rye" -- Tom comes out very Holden Caulfield-ish. (See the paragraph in which he refers to Martin as "a regular Voltaire." That's pure Salinger influence, there....) Sigh. Tom Riddle and Holden Caulfield -- who would have thought they'd have anything in common? Besides being young and angry and cynical. Erm, maybe they do have stuff in common. Oy. I do feel bad, foisting Martin and Janus Malfoy on Tom, and then having Hawley be a wizard as well... But hey, life isn't fair. :)  
  
Erm... Yeah. Anyway. Tom Riddle does not belong to me, nor does Dumbledore or Hogwarts or any Rowling-created objects. Becca, though she argues valiantly that she's a free person, belongs to me, and I hope you don't try to steal her or anything, mostly for your sake. She kicks shins and is apt to bite. The last line about the sea change is from a song in "The Tempest," by William Shakespeare. 


	4. Where You Belong

It seemed like forever. Becca dozed off at one point, though Tiny Tim's insistent squeakings woke her up. Groggy, she glanced at her familiar, who was sitting up on his hind legs and watching her intently. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, glancing out the window. It was dark, and but the lights in the castle's window glowed golden against the dark background. Overhead, the moon glimmered silver in the night. Cynthia was returning to the compartment, and smiled at her new friend. "Are you ready to go? They'll take our bags up without us, but we have to meet the gamekeeper first – he takes us to the school."  
  
Becca nodded. "Can I bring Tiny Tim with me? I'd hate to leave him behind."  
  
"I don't think they'd care. Can you take him out of the cage, though? It'd be kind of awkward."  
  
"He'll sit in my pocket," said Becca, and placed the hamster in the breast pocket of her robe. He sat there silently, black eyes gleaming and nose twitching as the air passed over him.  
  
"Let's go!" said Cynthia, and they went. Outside, the first years were milling uncertainly outside of the train. They didn't know where to go, and the older students were already boarding horse-less carriages that had spindly wooden legs like spiders. Becca could see, across the station, the dark haired boy from the robe shop shuddering and turning away. She couldn't help but smirk.  
  
"Where's the gamekeeper?" Becca asked, puzzled, but her question was answered almost instantly.  
  
A man, slightly plump and very winded, rushed onto the scene and climbed onto a chair so that they all could see him. When he spoke, he was yelling, as best he could while trying to slow his labored breathing. It was a rather comical effect, and Becca grinned. "Hello? Sorry I'm late, I didn't know—you can't Apparate—oh, never mind. Good evening!"  
  
"Good evening," they chorused.  
  
From somewhere in the crowd, a wag yelled, "Who're you?"  
  
The man took it in stride, and grinned at them all without attempting to find the speaker. "I'm Mr. Pigott, the gamekeeper. I'll be taking you first years to the boats."  
  
While some of the students snickered over the name 'Pigott,' an equal number glanced at each other, confused. What boats? Pigott seemed to pick up on the latter, and waved his hands toward the ink-black lake, where a number of small, four-seated boats bobbed gently against the side. Becca frowned – there were no oars. Were they supposed to use magic to propel the vessels? But no, Pigott was explaining. "Don't worry, you just sit in the boats and they'll sail straight under to the school."  
  
"Oh, no," Cynthia said, her face turning green, "I get sea-sick."  
  
*  
  
Tom didn't see why the name 'Pigott' would cause the other children to snicker, and he was pleased to find that Braden didn't, either. Although Tom supposed that with a name like 'Braden Baird' he couldn't really afford to laugh at other peoples' monikers. He noticed the rude girl from the robes shop attempting to comfort a moon-faced girl with braided auburn pigtails. The rude girl was had something that looked like a small rodent sticking from her pocket. At least it wasn't a spider.  
  
Braden was twisting his hand again, mumbling numbers under his breath, and Tom sighed and pulled his friend toward the boats. "Come /on/," he whispered, "You're going to miss the Sorting if you keep it up." Braden gave him a wounded look.  
  
"You made me lose count!"  
  
Tom was surprised, for the previously calm boy was now quite angry indeed. His pale hazel eyes had darkened and his pink cheeks were flushed an acrimonious red. Tom watched Braden for a moment, before putting out a hand to rest on the boy's shoulder. "Your world's not ending, Campbell. C'mon, let's go. We don't want to be late."  
  
Braden took a deep, shuddering breath, as though attempting to steel himself, and stalked out of the compartment without looking back. Tom rolled his eyes. He didn't think he'd ever understand the workings of the human mind – there were too many strange variables that popped up at the wrong time.  
  
Tom and Braden found an empty boat off to the side. Braden leaped into it with an adventurous flair, causing the vessel to rock and sway, but Tom inched in carefully. He did not want to sit through the Sorting with wet robes sticking to his body; it was not a comfortable prospect. Two girls who obviously knew each other already joined them; they chattered constantly and did not look at the boys. Braden had returned to his odd ritual, and was whispering numbers to himself. Tom, left alone, as always, sat at the front of the boat and trailed his hand in the icy water, watching the looming frame of the castle grow closer and closer.  
  
They traveled smoothly along, gliding over the choppy waves. It seemed like forever before they'd reached the other side, but Tom did not mind. He was enjoying himself, enjoying watching the stars and moon in their wavery, watery reflections. The contrast between light and dark was visually pleasing. He could see silhouetted against the skyline the carriages moving, their spider-legs rising above the ground   
  
Luckily, Braden had finished counting and twisting his fingers by the time the boat bumped gently against the shore of the lake, and he was able to hop onto the ground and wobble, regaining his land-legs, with the rest of the children. Tom caught his balance very quickly, and was forced to hold out a hand and catch one of the girls who had been in their boat, for she tumbled forward into him. The boy's pale face was disgusted as he helped her to her feet, extricating himself almost at once.  
  
"Watch your step," he told her.  
  
"'Lo, Riddle," said Martin, walking by. Tom made a nasty face at his retreating back. He could see Hawley, too, smarming up to some girl, and he hated both Hawley and Shaw intensely. It was a sudden feeling that hit him deep in the stomach. He watched as his worst enemy laughed, and smiled, and walked away. It was a grown-up hatred, consuming and extreme.  
  
"Tom?" Braden asked quietly. A role-reversal had occurred, drastically.  
  
"/What/?" he snapped.  
  
"Snap out of it."  
  
The hatred was still there, and it channeled itself onto Braden. Tom had the sudden desire to hit the pink-cheeked boy in the stomach, but it faded. He had to calm down. He took a deep breath and let it out again, warm air expelled from his throat, and with it went the anger. Had he seen his face in the mirror, he would not have recognized it. Tom was normally pale, but all the color had drained away, leaving only manic wide dark blue eyes staring from their settings, ringed beneath with purple-blue circles. It was a skeleton-face, not one of a boy.  
  
He breathed out again. "Sorry. Let's go."  
  
*  
  
Becca forced a calm expression onto her face, passive and cool, as they walked towards the greatest house of learning in all of Britain. It was a brooding place, but she thought that she could sense an underlying warmth to the impressive stone stairs that towered above them. Marble, cold and unyielding, steps upon steps rising upward. Standing there, a dark shape among the white, was a woman. She was of average height and weight, though looked as though she'd given up some meals in favor of an interesting book or perusal of a rare manuscript.  
  
The soft gaslights lit her from above, causing the area around her to illuminate with a golden glow. Unremarkable brown hair blew into her face, and she brushed it away. There was an intangible quality about her that commanded attention and respect, though her mouth was quirked upwards in the hint of a grin. "Hello," the woman said in a friendly manner, "I'm sure you're all rather nervous right now, mm?" She smiled as several children nodded vehemently.  
  
"Well, it will be over in a minute – and don't worry. Despite what your siblings told you, the Sorting doesn't hurt." Some exclamations of annoyance told Becca that many of the older wizard children had indeed done just that. "In a very short time, you will become part of the Hogwarts family." Becca sighed; why did adults making a decent speech always have to ruin it with something like that? "I am Calliope Abernathy, the Deputy Headmistress and Professor of Charms, and I will tell you this: whatever your parents have said about Houses, do not be ashamed of where you are put. It suits your personality, and you will be happiest there. Now, follow me, please." With an ironical little bow and a flourishing hand gesture, Professor Abernathy smiled at them. "Step forward and face your destiny."  
  
It was, Becca thought, as she moved forward with the surging crowd, a rather odd turn of a phrase, but it fit. They moved through a small room, and the Professor glanced over her shoulder. "Usually, the Deputies make you stew a bit, in the waiting room. I don't think that's quite fair, so we'll begin with the Sorting right away, I think. Through this door is the Sorting Hat. All you must do is sit on the stool and place the Hat upon your head, nothing else."  
  
"Ugh, I can't believe I believed it when my sister said you had to answer a Sphinx, and if you got it wrong you'd get put in Hufflepuff...." someone whispered, just as the rest of the room fell silent. The remark was obvious and loud, and all the first years turned to see whom the speaker was, a plump boy with his hair combed violently down.  
  
Professor Abernathy looked at him seriously. "There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff, boy, nor any of the Houses. That is what I was trying to tell you before." She looked solemnly at the doors and then opened them, allowing the children their first glimpse of the Great Hall.  
  
Above them was the dark of the enchanted ceiling; below them was the stone-tiled floor, some of the squares carved with intricate arcane sigils. Ahead were long tables with black-robed students, ranging from twelve to seventeen years old, the insignia of their Houses colorful against the sable of their formal dress. At the very back of the room on a raised dais were the Professors, some solemn and some cheerful; some watching the new students with intense beady eyes, others completely ignoring those who were so shortly to become their charges. And, in the very center of it all, a simple three-legged stool and a worn, tattered hat.  
  
As Becca watched, it shuddered, straightened, and opened a rip near the brim, singing.  
  
"A thousand or more years ago,  
There were great wizards four  
Their goal to build a school, and so  
Hogwarts opened its door.  
The Founders Four, as they are known;  
Their names recorded, etched in time  
Though long dead and gone  
Ere now I give this rhyme.  
I'll tell you where it is you fit  
One brave, one cunning; loyal or bright  
And very soon with House you'll sit,  
I'll Sort you quick and most a-right."  
  
"Abernathy, William!"  
  
The boy was obviously either a son or other close relative of Calliope Abernathy's; Becca was inclined to believe that he was a son. His face was very similar to the Deputy Headmistress', with fluffy, messy-looking brown hair. He was tall, and had a very thin mouth that was pressed in a nervous line. I suppose I'd be nervous, too, if the Deputy Headmistress was my mother, thought Becca; Everyone's watching him.  
  
The hat barely rested on his head before pronouncing, "RAVENCLAW!"  
  
The Ravenclaws clapped and cheered, pleased to be the first House chosen that year. William Abernathy placed the hat carefully back onto the stool, and strode over to the table. As he moved, his limbs waved in a gangly manner. He was a very awkward boy, and looked relieved once he sat down. The next choices were "HUFFLEPUFF" "GRYFFINDOR" "HUFFLEPUFF" and "SLYTHERIN," in that order. She tuned them out until the list reached "Campbell, Braden Baird." He was too odd to ignore.  
  
His hair was pale, and had an odd pinkish tinge to it. What caught her attention was the convulsive motion he made with his hand, over and over again. Braden Campbell hesitated before making his way to the stool; it looked like he was going to be sick. Placing the hat over his head, he remained standing up, fidgeting nervously. The hat took rather a long time to decide, with him. Finally, it said, "SLYTHERIN!" and Braden put the hat back on the seat, looking dazed, and stumbled towards the Slytherin table.  
  
The names blended to a blur. Finally, though, it was "Greenburn, Rebecca!" and she was walking up to the stool and they were watching her and she ignored them and put the hat on her head and it was black and dark and silent.  
  
Rebecca, eh? Come to find your Isaac? Heeheehee....  
  
No jokes, please, Becca thought firmly, I'd like to be Sorted now.  
  
Hmmph, said the Sorting Hat, and it sounded annoyed. Well, I think we can discount Ravenclaw right away – you're only interested in studying what interests you.  
  
Hey! Becca thought indignantly.  
  
Don't argue, young lady, you know it's true. You're not reckless enough for Gryffindor, are you?  
  
I'm not a coward.  
  
I never said you were. I said you weren't reckless. Do not argue with me, Rebecca Greenburn.  
  
I'm sorry.  
  
She could tell the hat was pleased by her apology. Not exactly Hufflepuff materiel – as I've said, if it doesn't interest you, you're not going to bother.... Ah. Ambition. Ambition and vindictiveness.... A dangerous combination, indeed, young Greenburn— you'll need to be careful.  
  
Careful of what? Becca demanded, but the hat was already moving on, its thought voice purposely vague and evasive.  
  
Pride – ambition – vindictiveness, and a certain cunning. Yes, I think you'll do nicely in SLYTHERIN! The last word echoed for all to hear, in the hall.  
  
Careful of what, you damned hairpiece? But there was only silence in response.  
  
As Becca removed the hat from her head, she saw Cynthia Murray's face staring at her from the crowd, looking utterly betrayed. Though Becca tried to catch the other girl's eye, Cynthia refused to look at her, and instead busied herself talking to a boy nearby. Anger blossomed deep in the pit of her stomach, and Becca stalked off to the Slytherin table, head held high. Well, if Cynthia was not going to be friends with her, simply because of what Becca was, well – she was not worth worrying about.  
  
Really, she wasn't.  
  
So why did it hurt so much?  
  
*  
  
So the rude girl was a Slytherin. Tom crossed his arms and leaned against a pillar, as nonchalant as he could appear. There was no need to be nervous, really, and the vague fluttering in his stomach was due to the fact that his lunch consisted of chocolate. He wasn't nervous. No.... Not at all. He attempted to ignore Hawley as the boy smiled at Rebecca Greenburn and bowed gallantly to her before taking the Hat away. Tom thought that he was about to vomit. A moment later, the Sorting Hat was yelling, "SLYTHERIN!" and that table was cheering and Hawley was smiling, and Tom's stomach hurt again.  
  
If they could be Slytherins, it was assured that he'd be one. Right?  
  
"Malfoy, Janus."  
  
"SLYTHERIN!"  
  
He wasn't going to listen anymore. He wasn't.  
  
"Murray, Cynthia," had barely rested the Hat on her head before being shuffled off into Gryffindor. She smiled triumphantly as she took her seat.   
  
"Nielsson, Katja."  
  
"RAVENCLAW!"  
  
"O'Hara, Kieran."  
  
"GRYFFINDOR!"  
  
"Perkins, Roberta."  
  
"HUFFLEPUFF!"  
  
"Potter, Ian." Abernathy pronounced it 'eye-in.' The boy, dark brown eyes wide, moved towards the Hat, face nervous, but walk infinitely confident. He moved like a cat.  
  
"GRYFFINDOR!"  
  
And on, and on. Tom, still leaning against the wall, closed his eyes, suddenly tired. The Hall faded away, to be replaced by the more interesting world beyond his sight. By sheer force of will, he even drowned out the droning voices and the cheers as more students were placed in the different Houses.... Suddenly, as though no time had passed, Abernathy was speaking again. "Riddle, Thomas."  
  
Oh, no. She'd said Thomas.... "It's Tom!" he yelled, causing widespread laughter. Tom flushed angrily and shook his head, walking slowly towards the hat. He would not show his nervousness. They were already laughing, and he would not give them cause to laugh, again. He sat on the stool (uncomfortable thing – how many students, just like him, had gotten splinters from its old wood?) and put the Hat on his head.  
  
Hello?  
  
Hello, Tom Riddle. My.... you've a penchant for nastiness, all right.  
  
What do you mean? Tom thought, feeling queasy. I'm not a bad person.  
  
No one's a bad person, to start with. Take care your temper doesn't get the better of you.  
  
I can control myself. I am not a child.  
  
No, the Hat said, and Tom could have sworn it sounded amused. But of course, clothing did not have feelings.  
  
No feelings, eh? You'd be surprised. You'd be surprised.... No, I can see you wouldn't fit in Gryffindor, at all. Nor Hufflepuff.  
  
No, Tom said, and now it was his turn to sound amused.  
  
I can see your potential, Tom, and your mind – it's brilliant. You could do very well in Ravenclaw.  
  
A scholar?  
  
No.... Somehow scholar doesn't fit. You've deep Slytherin blood.... oh yes, it runs deep in your veins. Hundreds of years.  
  
What do you mean?  
  
Ambition.  
  
Yes.  
  
Ambition could be your downfall, Tom Riddle.  
  
It could be anyone's downfall. I've a right to be ambitious, after what I've been through. I want to be something.  
  
There are many things you could be. I see it....  
  
I told you – I can control myself. Are you lonely, or something? Can't find anyone else to talk to?  
  
Yes, said the Hat, I knew it from the first. There's no place for you but SLYTHERIN.  
  
The nervous feeling in his stomach evaporated, and for that moment, Tom Riddle was a happy child, with a happy grin plastered on his face. It did not leave his face, even when he sat in a chair two seats down from Hawley.  
  
A wonderful day, indeed.  
  
*  
  
The rest of the Sorting went quickly. Tom toyed with his fork, tapping it against the solid gold plate set at the tables. It seemed rather a waste that the plates would be so expensive, but he supposed that the school was certainly rich enough to afford it – still – three of those table settings would have fed him for a year, at the orphanage. Across the table, Rebecca Greenburn chatted affably with a Slytherin second year, both of their voices muted as they compared experiences. It did not interest Tom.  
  
He perked his ears up when "Shaw, Martin" was called, and, as Tom had expected, was promptly placed into "HUFFLEPUFF!"  
  
"Tanaka, Midori."  
  
"RAVENCLAW."  
  
"Trahaearn, Saeth."  
  
"SLYTHERIN."  
  
There were fewer people now, they were almost done.... And finally, after "Young, Kirby," Headmaster Dippet stood up in his place at the center of the staff table. He had a shrunken appearance, as though the weight of years rested heavily on his shoulders and his mind. Tom thought idly that he was not a figure to inspire great confidence or loyalty, but perhaps he'd been better, long ago, when there was still black hair on his head and a twinkle in the watery gray-white eyes.  
  
"Students of Hogwarts," he said, and his voice had a tremulous quiver, "Welcome, welcome to the new year. I am so pleased to see new faces—" Perhaps it was Tom's imagination, but he felt as though the rheumy gaze was fixed on him. A trick? No, he was sure the Headmaster was watching him. "....the future," Dippet said. "I hope you will enjoy this year. That is all."  
  
Despite the uninspiring tone of the words, they clapped and applauded as expected. Dippet sat again, his thin chicken neck jerking querulously back and forth as he looked sideways at Professor Abernathy. The little white wisps of his hair frizzed out wildly on either side of his head as he sat and fussily tucked his napkin over his lap. "And now – we eat."  
  
Food appeared on the plates, magically, and Tom, who despite devouring a remarkable amount of snacks on the train, found his appetite returning full force. He was passed everything, and had so much food on his plate that he was forced to pile several rolls on top of the meat. Silence, he decided wisely, was best while eating, he was able to simultaneously make sure that no one stole anything, and shovel it down at the same time. The other Slytherins were talking animatedly, but Tom – he was concentrated solely on protecting his dinner.  
  
In the orphanage, they'd never had food like this.... It was wonderful, it was amazing; words did not begin to describe it. At home (no – it wasn't home. It never had been home) the other children would have fought for a meal like this. Tom pushed those thoughts from his mind and mindlessly devoured everything on the plate and, when he was done, wiped it clean with a piece of bread and ate that, too.  
  
It was then that he noticed some other Slytherins watching him, some in disgust, but most with odd pitying looks. Tom flushed – if there was one thing he hated more than condescension, it was pity. He could have no way of knowing that his too-thin frame and the dark circles under his eyes, coupled with the all too obvious ravenous appetite would have failed to provoke pity in all but the hardest of hearts. All he knew was that the pitying stares infuriated him and caused him to become even more aloof than he'd been before.  
  
He also did not know that, from across the table and several seats down, someone was watching him.  
  
*  
  
Tom Riddle was exactly what he was named: an enigma. Becca Greenburn slanted a gaze at the boy who toyed sullenly with his fork while waiting for the dinner to be over. He had finished the giant pile of chicken and steak and vegetables in half the time of the others, and they also had about half the food. She had not attempted to talk to him since the rather disastrous experience in the robe shop, and he certainly had not made any step towards conversation. Cynthia Murray's betrayal – it didn't bother her – she wouldn't think about it. She would instead watch the others as they ate.  
  
Tom Riddle, now resting his head on his elbow. Despite his thin frame and scowling face and the circles under his eyes, he was still one of the most beautiful children she'd ever seen. Blue-black hair clipped short in the back hung over his forehead smoothly; an oval face with prominent cheekbones, a straight nose, and sardonic mouth, curled downward in a glare. His eyes, however, were what fascinated her. They were not the eyes of a child; fathomless and aloof, a dark blue fringed with black lashes.  
  
Next to her, Eustace Hawley, blond, stocky, and rather boring. As she ate, he told long, boastful stories about his life in the orphanage and how tough he'd been. "No one messed with me," Hawley was saying confidently as she nibbled the crust from a roll, "'Specially Riddle, over there." This last comment earned him a look of such utter disdain from the aforementioned that Becca was forced to hide a grin behind her hand.  
  
Saeth Trahaearn, violently Welsh, with a lilting accent and the most sarcastic inflection that Becca had ever heard, unremarkable in appearance with brown braided pigtails tied in absurd blue bows, murmured something quietly to Hawley that caused him to flush angrily and glare at her. Further down was the boy Braden Campbell, relaxed and chatting easily with the rest of them, his anxiety forgotten as he, too, ate like breakfast would never happen soon enough.  
  
And the older children: Scott Seeley, fifth year Beater and Quidditch Captain, was hotly debating some important point of his sport with another Quidditch player, from the conversation also a Beater. "Now, if the Bludger's coming /this/ way you dodge to the right, and hit it towards the Seeker—"  
  
"I know, you dunce, I invented the play!" Their discussion became even more highly technical; dropping arcane terms and half in Beater's Code, a sort of verbal shorthand that allowed Beaters to communicate quickly in the air. Becca gave up attempting to follow their mental processes (at times, she wasn't even sure if the boy and the girl understood each /other/), and instead yawned, leaning back in the chair.  
  
Feasts were all very well if you liked to eat, but she suddenly wasn't hungry any more.  
  
*  
  
Ice cream! Ice cream, cake, and chocolate chip cookies oozing their insides out onto his plate. Tom, who had thought he'd found the limits of his belly after a truly gargantuan supper, found that he either had a second stomach or had not eaten as much as he'd first supposed. Eating the ice cream, he remembered the one time they'd had that particular treat at the Cheapside Home for Unwanted Children. A vicar from a neighboring parish, one known for his charity, was coming to visit, and the directors had done everything to receive the money he'd be able to donate. That day, there were no beatings, the children were given their pair of new clothes for the year, and as a special dessert, with the vicar presiding over the meal, small dishes of peppermint flavored ice cream were issued to each child.  
  
Tom still hated peppermint.  
  
Luckily, the ice cream served at Hogwarts was a creamy vanilla, with small bowls of multi-colored sprinkles and butterscotch syrup to place on top of it. Braden was picking at his food, and Tom almost had to force the boy to take a couple of cookies and pull small pieces from those. Eventually, however, Dippet signaled that the feast was finished. "Prefects, please lead your Houses back to the dormitories." The Slytherin prefect was none other than Scott Seeley, who looked annoyed that he'd been forced away from his altercation.  
  
"This way, please," he said, striding ahead of them. "We're almost there, it's behind a bare wall – you can tell by the pattern of bricks in an 'S,' and the password's 'Te audire.'" Tom was happy to find that, once he stood up, he was almost as tall as the Beater and general star of the show. Seeley, on the other hand, wasn't so delighted, and he told Tom to go to the back of the group. Out of the Great Hall, down twisting stairs, to the dungeons.... Oh, great, thought Tom, They care so little about us that we're shoved into the bowels of the castle.  
  
And then that phrase amused him, and he laughed. The bowels of the castle. It sounded like something out of a very poorly written adventure novel. Lagging behind, he stopped, and laughed. "I hope there's no dragons down here, I'm too stuffed to fight one right now."  
  
"No, masssster," a hissing, sibilant voice replied, "No dragonsssss. Only me."  
  
*  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The usual disclaimer: I don't own anything by JKR (most notably Tom Riddle *sob. boohoo* Tom: Oh, stop that. It's pathetic.) I do own Becca and assorted other gitty (is that a word? I don't know) students, like Hawley and Shaw and Janus Malfoy. Even though they're absolute bastards, they still belong to meeeee. Er, yeah. Um, you get the idea, right?  
  
Anyway, I liked this chapter, especially the mini-cliff hanger near the end. Bet you didn't think that Braden was going to be a Slytherin, did you? There are hidden depths to everyone, I suppose... And I really have nothing against Hufflepuff, despite Shaw being one. Please tell me what you think -- even if you absolutely hate it, I'd just like feedback. In the words of a rather odd boy at my school, "Peace out." 


	5. Parseltongues and Chessboards

Tom turned deliberately around, searching the hallway for the human – or the ghost, perhaps – who had spoken. There was no one in sight. Puzzled, he looked all around once more, even glancing up at the ceiling. No one. "Where are you?" Tom asked slowly.  
  
"Down here, masssster."  
  
Tom looked down. On the floor was a small emerald green snake, white belly and coiled at the bottom, with its head raised. It watched him with flat black eyes that held an oddly intelligent expression. It was the only thing within sight, but there was no possible way that it would have been able to speak to him. "Right," he whispered to himself, "The snake is /talking/ to me...." Maybe he needed sleep more than he thought, at first. Tom had always been nocturnal, but everyone is mistaken now and then.... Still, if he was hallucinating, something could be seriously wrong.  
  
"I am talking to you," the soft, sonorant voice whispered, "And you are talking to me."  
  
"I /am/ crazy," Tom said, shaking his head like a dog clearing water from its fur. For good measure, he rubbed his eyes and blinked. The snake was still there, watching him with that strange almost.... expectant look. Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. "If I'm really communicating with a reptile – then you'll understand me. Turn in a circle, please." The 'please,' once out of his mouth, sounded silly, but the snake seemed satisfied.   
  
It turned in a perfect circle, sinuous body twisting, then raised its head up again, and Tom could have sworn there was a faint smile upon its reptilian features. Tom gaped at it for a moment. "I'm talking to a snake," he repeated.  
  
"Yessss," the snake replied, amused. "You are. Lissssten to your voissssssse; you are not ssssspeaking in Englisssssh."  
  
Tom listened, but all he could hear was normal English. He concentrated harder, and was surprised to find that the noises emerging from his mouth, which sounded so much like coherent speech, were actually falling from his lips in the hiss of a snake.  
  
"I wanted to make my presssssssence known, but it issss late and I will leave you now, young massssster." With that, it slithered away through a hole in the wall, leaving the boy dumbfounded and shocked.  
  
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Tom walked down the hallway to find the Slytherin Commons. Sleep would be a long way off, but his quarters had to be more pleasant than the cold passage, with its unforgiving stone walls. He saw the 'S' imprinted in the wall (an idle gaze would miss it, but the stones were noticeably arranged in the shape of the letter) and rested his hand upon the cool marble, and whispered the words, "Te audire." With a faint whisper of moving rock, the wall slid apart, moving outward and opening up a portal to the Commons.  
  
His first impression of the rooms was a favorable one. The stairs descended into a long rectangular chamber, a study in medieval majesty. Heavy, fanciful stonework decorated the boundaries between floor and wall and wall and ceiling. In the center of the far wall, the focal point of the room, was a huge hearth with a wide mantle, burning in it, despite the fact that the weather outside was crisp, but not cold, was a snapping fire that shot up heat-less green flames. The overall ambiance of the chamber was one of green coolness; from the hunter-green couches arranged in a square, to the green crystal chandelier.  
  
It was, Tom thought, a commodious mixture of elegance and comfort. He'd look at it more tomorrow, but for now, he'd try to sleep (try being the word in question).  
  
*  
  
The softly glowing clock on the wall told Becca that the time was two thirty in the morning, but she was not tired. Perhaps it was the excitement, or the large meal she'd just consumed, but every time she tried to shut her eyes they popped open again. Finally, she gave up and slid out of the bed, bare feet padding over the chilly flagstones of the floor.  
  
Becca hated her nightdress with a passion. It was everything she hated in a garment, white, long, and frilly, with little pink bows across the chest. If she tried to sleep on her stomach, the infernal bows dug into her chest and stomach, and the lace around the bottom edge made her ankles itch. Leah had bought it for her before she left for school, beaming. "Isn't it precious?" her mother had asked. Becca had simply stared at her in horrified disbelief, and hoped beyond hope that her mother was joking.  
  
Unfortunately, she wasn't.  
  
Becca walked towards the door of the dormitory, ignoring the rustle of lace against the floor, and the soft sleep-noises of the other Slytherin girls. She had a case tucked beneath her arm as she left, a small white figure surrounded in shadows.  
  
The fire in the Common Room had dimmed to a sullen glow, sending a ghoulish viridian light about the area, casting tall shadows in the corner. Becca sat on a couch, pulling the nearby table closer. Reverently she placed the case on the smooth surface, opening it with a tiny smile. Inside rested a folded chessboard and carved wooden pieces, the white faded to yellow and the black to a rather muddy brown. She did this often, when insomnia or boredom struck: Becca played chess against herself.  
  
Aba would play with her sometimes, but he didn't play with his heart or mind or full attention, not like Becca did. She loved the game, loved moving the pieces in an attack against her opponent, be it black or white. She loved the way it was a mind-play as much as strategy and tactics, to win one had to have an understanding with the enemy. Ima worried that it was strange, her daughter playing up in her room with the worn chessboard, but Aba had shrugged her away. "It's good for the girl," he said, "Develop her mind."  
  
She set out the pieces, white facing off against black. Time passed, as she wracked her mind to come up with the best defense against herself. It was a long time before she realized that someone was sitting across from her, watching the movements with intense scrutiny.  
  
"Hello, Riddle," she said.  
  
*  
  
He lay on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, or at least where the ceiling should have been – it was obscured by the heavy dark-green brocade canopy. He wasn't tired at all, and instead focused on listening to the small noises of the children around him. In the next bed over, Braden was muttering something to himself that sounded like, "Control oneself...." and tossing over and over. At one point, he said very clearly, "To gain power, one must first control oneself." Tom snorted at the pseudo-philosophical comment; his friend was strange even in sleep.  
  
Tom, unable to sleep, had finally found the light snores of his year-mates unbearable, and, wearing the ugly red-and-gray striped orphanage pajamas, opted to escape towards the Common Room, where at least there would be silence.  
  
He was rather surprised to find someone else there, especially the Greenburn girl sitting on a couch in an utterly ridiculous outfit, the fire throwing flickering darkness onto her face, frowning at a checkered board and biting her lip. Curious despite his best intentions, Tom moved silently to the couch opposite the table she that used, watching her. It was chess, he recognized, but there was no one to play against. He could only surmise that she was battling herself in a silent war of wits, and given the strange things that had already happened to him that night, Tom had little room left for surprise.  
  
He studied the game. Tom had always wanted to play chess but had never learned; the orphanage shunned any leisurely activities that could possibly have improved the mind. Sometimes he'd thought that they /meant/ to handicap their charges when they went into the world, but that was idle speculation. There were six different kinds of pieces, and they all had a separate type of movement that went with them. The object seemed to be to protect the one with the heavy crown upon its head, but it was handicapped by the fact that it was only able to go one space at a time.  
  
"Hello, Riddle," she said abruptly, surprising him.  
  
"Nice nightdress," he said.  
  
"You should talk," she replied, obviously irked. Tom looked down at himself and saw that his ankles and two inches of skin above them were revealed by the ill fitting striped pajamas; the unfortunate color choice made him seem paler and skinnier than ever.  
  
"Touché," he concurred. "What are you doing?"  
  
"What does it look like?"  
  
"Playing chess against yourself. There's no point. You always win."  
  
"There /is/ a point."  
  
"Care to explain?"  
  
"Maybe." She watched him silently; sharp dark eyes fixed on his face. "You're up late."  
  
"I couldn't sleep."  
  
"Homesick?" she asked, one eyebrow arching sarcastically.  
  
"Nothing of the sort," he said, and he knew that his face had closed down angrily, but couldn't help it.  
  
The girl's face watched him, and he thought that if he saw any pity or sympathy there, he would call her something nasty and try to brave the snores again. But it didn't. If anything, she smirked a little bit. "I didn't think so. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten Hawley lived in your home, as well."  
  
An unexpected snort of laugher escaped his nose, and she grinned as well, an expression that brightened her face considerably. "Most of those stories weren't true, you know," he told her.  
  
"I figured as much. It's not often a ten-year-old boy has the orphanage directors living in mortal fear of his magical ability."  
  
Tom snorted again, disdainful, this time. "He didn't even know magic existed until Sawyer told him." Then, "Will you teach me how to play chess?"  
  
"If you want," Greenburn said doubtfully.  
  
"I do," Tom told her sincerely, "I really do, Greenburn. It looks like fun."  
  
Greenburn was offended. "Chess is not /fun/! It's an exciting game of strategy and tactics but—"  
  
"All right, all right," Tom said hastily. He'd met people before with obsessions, and they were never pleasant to listen to, when started on a full rant.  
  
"—It is not /fun/," she plowed on, and then added on an afterthought, "Call me Becca."  
  
"Then I'm Tom," he said, and she smiled.  
  
"Right. Now," Becca said, leaning forward, "This is the King. You don't want to lose him...."  
  
*  
  
Fifteen minutes later, they were playing their first game. Becca was surprised at how quickly Tom caught on. Even though she beat him rather easily, he did better than most beginners, and had even managed to put her in check twice. He played a very conservative game, she noted, defensive and devious. He laid traps where they were least expected and once she had to pull a very hasty retreat, sacrificing her Bishop in place of the King. Still, she won in about ten minutes, and was forced by his protests to play a second game. Tom's face had a tiny smile on it, a look she had not yet seen on him.  
  
It was interesting, and she almost – almost – forgot about the nightdress.  
  
*  
  
Tom studied the checkered board in front of him. Becca had him in check, again. It was somewhat frustrating, but he was getting better as the time went on. She had her poker face in place, the inscrutable expressionless mask that betrayed nothing. He sighed and returned to examining the situation in black and white before him. Becca's style was wild and idiosyncratic; she did not always plan for the long game. She was fond of using her knights, whirling chariots that cut swaths across the board.  
  
He moved his King to the left, neatly evading the Rook. His lips curled up in a grin as Becca rested her chin on her hands, thinking.  
  
He could get used to this.  
  
*  
  
"What were you doing all night?" Braden asked him at breakfast, "It looks as if you haven't slept a wink."  
  
"I was playing chess."  
  
Braden looked at Tom as though the dark-haired boy had gone crazy. "You played /chess/? With who?"  
  
"Becca."  
  
Braden raised an eyebrow, and grinned suddenly. "I'm impressed, Tom."  
  
"That I learned how to play chess in one night?"  
  
"No.... We haven't even finished the first full day and you've got a girlfriend already."  
  
"She's not my girlfriend," Tom frowned. "She taught me how to play chess."  
  
"Whatever you say," Braden trailed.  
  
Their first class was History of Magic. Professor Binns was an elderly wizard, even older than Professor Dippet, and looked as though he thought about nothing except planning, teaching, and grading his class. His personality had been completely burned away, lost beneath the canvassed exterior of a boarding school history teacher. Tom shuddered, what a horrible fate to meet. He stood at the front of the classroom and waited, in a bovine manner, for all the children to sit.  
  
Once he was satisfied that no one was misbehaving, Binns began his lecture in a voice that sounded like it had been left out of the woodwinds section in the orchestra, dry and reedy. "Welcome to my class.... I am Professor Binns, and I will be teaching you the History of the magical world. I think that it would be beneficial for me to explain some of the history of your school...."   
  
Tom half-dozed until something that Binns was saying caught his attention. "Salazar Slytherin, also known as Snake-tongue—"  
  
Though he knew it was risky, Tom raised his hand. Binns, surprised, looked at him and frowned suddenly. "Yes, Mr. Roth?"  
  
Janus Malfoy and Eustace Hawley sniggered.  
  
"Riddle, sir."  
  
"Riddle. You have a question?"  
  
"Yes – you said that Slytherin was known as Snake-tongue? Why?" Something about that name sounded nastily familiar....  
  
Irritated, Professor Binns sniffed. "Slytherin was a Parseltongue."  
  
"A what?" Becca interrupted.  
  
"Parseltongue. A wizard with the ability to converse with snakes—Mr. Ridell, is something wrong?" Tom had been staring wordlessly at him until Professor Binns noticed. The elderly wizard was looking extremely irritable, and Tom blinked.  
  
"Nothing, Professor. I'm sorry."  
  
"Now," Binns said, glaring at him, "We shall continue, if you please!"  
  
*  
  
Braden, who had been fidgeting during the entire period, bolted towards the bathrooms as soon as Binns dismissed them. Tom rolled his eyes and sighed – it looked like he was on his own. Or at least, he would have been, for Tom had not counted on Becca Greenburn.  
  
"What was /that/ about?" Becca demanded, as they left the classroom, many of the students yawning frantically and rubbing their eyes.  
  
"What was what about?" Tom said vaguely, attempting to throw her off track. However, Becca was too intelligent for that, and she merely frowned at him.  
  
"Don't pretend I'm stupid, Tom."  
  
"I never said you were stupid."  
  
"You're implying it."  
  
"I'm implying no such thing."  
  
"Yes, you are. You were obviously worried or shocked after hearing that Slytherin was a Parseltongue, and then finding out what a Parseltongue is."  
  
"Well he should be," Saeth put in, appearing suddenly behind them. "It's rather amusing, really, most people are frightened of Parseltongues."  
  
"Why?" Becca asked.  
  
"It's often seen as a mark of evil, being able to talk to snakes. Sort of like being left-handed." And she hurried ahead to catch up with her new friend, Meg (really, it was Margaret, but the girl insisted on the shortened version) Decker.  
  
"I'm left-handed," Tom whispered.  
  
"And a Parseltongue?" Becca said shrewdly.  
  
"No! Well.... yes."  
  
"I knew it!" she crowed triumphantly.  
  
"Keep it down, will you?" Tom hissed, "I don't need anyone thinking I'm an evil monster."  
  
"I don't think you're a monster," Becca said, "I'm jealous."  
  
"You're /jealous/? Why?"  
  
"I've always wanted to talk to animals! It's not fair that you can and I can't...."  
  
"Becca, in case you didn't hear Trahaearn, it's considered a /mark of evil/."  
  
"Oh, that. That's just superstition. Will you show me, sometime?"  
  
"I'm not sure whether I should be admiring you, or hitting you over the head with a mallet."  
  
Becca smiled. "Compliments, compliments. Mr. Riddle, you're quite the charmer."  
  
Tom glowered at her. "Quiet! Someone might /hear/ you!"  
  
She waved his protests away, joking manner gone completely. "If you're so concerned, than duck under the stairway, here. The class is gone and Defense Against the Dark Arts doesn't start for another quarter hour."  
  
Tom sighed – he wasn't going to get away so easily.  
  
"Now," Becca said sternly, "You're going to tell me exactly how it happened, and you're going to show me."  
  
*  
  
"I guess there has to be a live snake around for it to work," Becca said, extremely disappointed. After several failed attempts to speak Parseltongue, the results had netted only genuine English. ("I feel stupid," Tom said. "All right, all right, you can stop," she'd conceded, to his evident relief.)  
  
"Thank you," Tom said sarcastically, and peered at Becca's watch. "We'd better hurry, or we'll be late." Defense Against the Dark Arts was on the fourth floor, near the library. The room was dark and rather musty, as if the teacher didn't bother to have it cleaned.  
  
Braden reappeared and sat at a desk with Becca and Tom, arranging his books in front of him. "I heard," he whispered, "That Professor Keirsey was an Auror, but he got into a duel with a Dark Wizard and he's a bit.... touched."  
  
*  
  
Keirsey was indeed "a bit touched." He had a spindly neck and an over-large head, which bobbed continuously as he jerked it back and forth, staring suspiciously at his students. Becca was torn between pity and laughter, and once, horrified, she caught her mouth quirking upward in a smile hastily smothered. Whatever the Dark Wizards, most likely followers of Grindelwald, had done to him must have been terrible indeed. Keirsey would trail off into silence and then suddenly snap back to attention, and his lesson was long and rambling. Becca wondered why the headmaster allowed this incompetent to continue teaching, but the only reason she could come up with was pity.  
  
Her other classes were somewhat better than History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Abernathy was as good a teacher as she'd sounded the first day of school. Their first lesson was a basic Floating charm, but the Professor promised them they'd be making apples sing operetta by the end of the month. Becca thought privately that it was most likely going to be longer than that; she, Tom, Braden, Hawley, and Saeth were the only ones to manage the spell correctly on the first try.  
  
Becca enjoyed Dumbledore's class even more than Abernathy's, if that was possible. He was an entertaining teacher, gently correcting the ones who needed the guidance, and leaving the more astute students more slack. To her chagrin, Tom was quite clearly the head of the class, and she sighed, realizing that in her new friend was a worthy opponent: hard work would be needed to beat him. Tom, for his part, seemed unaware of the secret rivalry that began that day, or maybe he just didn't care.  
  
Muggle Studies, which was required as a minor class for first years, was disastrous. Becca, Muggle-born, was alternately bored out of her mind or annoyed, as the teacher clearly favored the Gryffindors. This caused some muttering among the Slytherins, and Becca thought she caught the dreaded term 'Mudblood' bandied around once or twice. Catching her in a yawn, the Professor, Worthington, took five points from Slytherin and moved Becca to the front, which prompted and outburst from Saeth, culminating in her muttering under her breath, "English git." This did nothing to endear the Slytherins to the Professor, and he took another five points.  
  
*  
  
Tom was exhausted by the time he got to Potions. He'd managed to stick with Braden and Becca for most of the day, but they'd been separated when Professor Worthington made Becca sit by herself in the front row. The Potions Professor was a petite elderly woman named Qureshi, a Ravenclaw who held herself absolutely impartial (it was impossible for her to hold favorites, as she seemed to dislike /all/ the students), even more conscientious about the subject than Abernathy. It was an interesting class; the Professor was no-nonsense and informative.   
  
It seemed as though Slytherin was always thrown together with the Gryffindors. Tom might have liked them if they'd shown any sort of common decency whatsoever, but the majority of Godric's House seemed convinced that each and every Slytherin was horrible, incorrigible, and up to no good. It didn't help that they had people like Malfoy and Hawley around, but oddly enough, Hawley seemed to get along well with the more liberal Gryffindors.  
  
They had yet another double period on Friday; Flying lessons at last. Tom was not particularly dreading nor looking forward to that lesson, but he was indeed annoyed that they'd been put with Gryffindor, again. Becca didn't seem pleased, either, but Braden didn't seem to care. He was more concerned, at the moment, with his ritual....  
  
Thoughts of his friend's exceedingly strange behavior momentarily derailed Tom's train of thought, as he frowned and glanced sideways at the pink-toned boy. While, at first, the habit did not seem particularly injurious, it was rapidly gaining importance in Braden's life. Tom observed him carefully, and compiled a set of facts about the odd malady. It seemed to strike when Braden was nervous or agitated, and continued indefinitely, usually until he calmed down. He would get angry if interrupted, which sometimes caused trouble if a teacher called upon him in class.  
  
Still, it remained a mystery, and Tom resolved to figure it out as soon as possible. In the meantime – in the meantime, there was flying.  
  
They trooped out onto the lawn early in the morning, with the wind whipping their robes backward and away from their bodies. Becca's hair was torn from its tie, causing the girl to utter what was, in Tom's opinion, a very unwomanly expression. He had learned, however, not to mention such things to her. It wasn't worth an attempted hex (even though he could block them easily). The flying instructor was Monsieur Chatelain, a Frenchman. Becca wondered idly what he was doing in England, but was distracted when class started.  
  
M. Chatelain examined the assembled group with amused eyes; his slightly pudgy face crinkled in a myriad of laugh lines. "Welcome!" he enthused at them, "Welcome to your first flying lesson." Tom tuned him out and turned a critical eye on the line of brooms spread before them – they looked rather old and at best, very rickety. "Take a broom, take one!" The light, bubbly accent tumbled frantically out of M. Chatelain's mouth. Tom chose a broom and nudged it experimentally with his foot. It rolled away from him and he bit back an exclamation of shock.  
  
Braden had managed, Tom noted enviously, to pick out the best broom of the lot; it looked as though it were most likely a replacement, for the brush was clean and straight, and it lacked the dirty pallor that the other broomsticks had acquired. "Now," M. Chatelain said, "You will tell your broom, 'UP!'"  
  
"Up," Tom said warily. He caught the broom as it rose and watched the other students. Becca seemed to be having a bit of trouble, her face flushing red as she muttered, "Up, up, up," without success. Hawley was holding his broom and smirking, as was Malfoy; Braden held his broom with a calm self-assurance that was so notably lacking in most of his life. Ian Potter was also one of the exultant few whose flying implements had obeyed, he and some of the Gryffindors. Tom was quite happy to note that Cynthia Murray's broom remained motionless.  
  
M. Chatelain proceeded to explain the fundamental mechanics of the broomstick, and judging from his extreme enthusiasm, would have continued indefinitely. Ian Potter, who looked anxious to start flying, cut in as politely as possible, bringing the teacher back down to earth. Tom thought it a measure of Chatelain's tolerance that he merely smiled, nodded, and proceeded with the lesson. They mounted the brooms, and rose up into the air....  
  
*  
  
Becca was not having fun. Her broom seemed determined to go in the opposite direction of where she wished it to, and it didn't make it any better that Tom, Hawley, and Ian Potter were swooping around as though they'd spent their entire lives in the air. She was rather discouraged by the time they touched down again, in Becca's case bumping painfully into the earth. The other students left, but Becca stayed behind, partly to talk to the teacher, and also because of something she had seen hanging around his neck.  
  
"M. Chatelain?"  
  
"Oui?"  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm just a hopeless flyer...."  
  
"Don't worry, Mademoiselle Greenburn," M. Chatelain said, smiling. "Not everyone is a natural their first time up."  
  
"Tom was," Becca muttered sullenly.  
  
"As I've said, not everyone can expect to be marvelous their first time flying."  
  
"But—"  
  
"Mademoiselle Greenburn."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Listen to me, please."  
  
She listened, somewhat abashed.  
  
"You cannot be the best at everything."  
  
"But—!"  
  
M. Chatelain raised an admonishing eyebrow, and she shut up. "You might not have started out well, but you can practice – practice and learn. Maybe you'll never be a Quidditch star, Mademoiselle Greenburn. And if you aren't, then what will you do?"  
  
"I'll.... I'll...." Becca had always been near the tops of her classes in Muggle school, and she saw no reason why this shouldn't continue in Hogwarts, as well. Unfortunately, it didn't seem as this would be the case, especially in Quidditch. She had no way of knowing that her face had acquired a very mulish look, and that M. Chatelain, beneath his amiable smile, was struggling not to laugh.  
  
"Is that all?" he wanted to know.  
  
"No," Becca said, pointing at his neck. "That necklace – is that a Mogen David?" A Star, or Shield, of David.  
  
"Yes," M. Chatelain said, pulling it out from where it was hidden beneath the neckline of his robes. "I'm Jewish. I'm assuming you are, as well?"  
  
She nodded, frowning. "The food here isn't kosher, but I have to /eat/."  
  
"Ah!" he exclaimed, "A simple solution. I shall ask the house elves to prepare for you a kosher meal. They do it for me; I'm sure they'll be able to manage another."  
  
"Thank you!" she said, relieved, "I just know my parents would make me feel guilty if they found out I wasn't keeping."  
  
"You're welcome," he said, bowing. "And now, I think you'd better hurry up – your friends are waiting."  
  
"'Bye," Becca called, shouldering her book-satchel and heading off across the Quidditch pitch.  
  
"Au revoir."  
  
"Tom! Braden! Wait for me!"  
  
M. Chatelain smiled, and went to pick up the brooms. 


	6. I Am Lord Voldemort

Becca very gradually got used to life at Hogwarts. Homesickness would strike at odd times, when a smile or laugh would remind her of her father, or the play of light in the trees remind her of the way the sun would shine through the curtains of her room. At first it was a sharp pang in her stomach that eased gradually – she was not weak. She would not cry. So, whenever she missed her parents, or Gideon, she threw herself into her work, or talked with her friends. Tom and Braden, as different as night and day (to use a cliché that, in this case, was quite true indeed.)  
  
September passed, and she settled into the routine. History of Magic, though she did well in it, was remarkably boring. She'd thought that Mr. Wiggin, her maths teacher in her old school, was the epitome of dullness, but Professor Binns surpassed him by an incredible amount. Potions was easy, for Becca, and she liked Qureshi despite the woman's evident misanthropy. The one class she really despised was Muggle studies, but she only had to deal with Worthington every third day.  
  
The other Slytherins, at least the female ones, seemed oddly clannish. The little group was led by Saeth and Meg who, while friendly most of the time, did not go out of their way to include Becca. That was perfectly fine with her; she spent most of her time with the two boys. She continuously expected a brawl to break out between Tom and Hawley, but nothing ever happened. The latter was too careful, especially in front of the adults, and though there were sharp words no blows were exchanged. Malfoy, too, was odious, though the teachers had his number better than they'd Hawley's.  
  
In fact, nothing of note happened until December.  
  
*  
  
Tom woke up, rubbed his eyes, and pushed lank strands of black hair out of his face. He'd need to get one of the house-elves to cut it, or something. He sat up, yawning widely, and shoved the sheets aside. The cool floor barely caught a wince from him as he started walking towards the door, intending to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth, but his walk was aborted when he stubbed his toe on a large package. "Shit!" he said, and immediately shut his mouth. If Professor Lianis, Head of Slytherin and teacher of Divination, had heard, there would be points taken away.  
  
He leaned over, holding his foot away from the ground, and examined the object. It was wrapped in plain brown paper, but there was an envelope tucked beneath the string holding it closed. He opened it and read:  
  
Tom,  
Your mother wanted you to have this on your eleventh birthday.  
Both of the presents belonged to her; she never explained the  
significance of them. I'm just passing them along. Happy birth-  
day, Tom. Eva would have been proud of you.  
--Sawyer  
  
Tom sat down on the floor – he had not been expecting any presents. December 21st was his birthday, but at the orphanage, the only thing that happened on birthdays was that you got measured, weighed, and they decided whether you needed new clothes or not. He'd never had a present before, let alone one from his mother. Silently he struggled with the knot, gradually growing more and more frustrated when it refused to yield. Finally, in a spurt of temper, Tom grabbed his wand from the small table nearby and incinerated the string.  
  
Unfortunately, the paper caught on fire, too, and Tom nearly destroyed the entire package trying to put it out. Calming himself, he brushed away the charred remains of the wrapping paper and finally opened the wooden crate that the objects had come in. The smaller one was in another box, and Tom opened that carefully. Inside, resting upon a bed of soft cotton, was a necklace. He frowned and lifted it carefully from the case, looping the gold chain around his first two fingers.  
  
It was a small golden ball, about the size of a walnut, surrounded with a cage of delicate silver filigree. And surprisingly heavy, for such a small thing. Something about it tugged at the back of his memory and he squinted at it, trying to figure out what it was. No luck there. Tom replaced the necklace into the box and shut it carefully, and then looked at the bigger package: it was black, oddly shaped – a violin case! With a wide smile on his face, Tom lifted the musical instrument from its wooden prison, cradling the worn, slightly dusty leather against his chest.  
  
The clasps opened easily and he drew the violin from the blue velvet depths, examining its every detail. It looked exactly the same as when his mother had played it, though it obviously wasn't in tune. The horsehair bow fit into snaps at the side. Tom ran his fingers over the strings, causing discordant notes to flicker in the darkness. The sound, too low for most people to hear, caused Braden (always a light sleeper) to sit up with a start.  
  
"Tom?" he muttered sleepily.  
  
"Look at this, Braden!" he whispered, "Birthday presents!"  
  
"You never told me it was your birthday," Braden said, accusing. His voice was thick and he sounded like he was still half-asleep.  
  
"You never asked. But look, they're from my mum!"  
  
Braden blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked confused. "Tom, you told me your mother was dead."  
  
"She /is/. But I guess she left these things in trust or something.... It's her violin."  
  
There was a rustling noise as Braden got out of his bed, blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape. He examined Tom sharply, as though expecting to see tears or something of that nature. He found that the other boy wasn't even looking at him, he was staring closely at the instrument before him. "You don't know how to play, though."  
  
"No," Tom said, looking mulish, "But I'm going to learn. There's got to be someone around here that knows how to play...."  
  
*  
  
Becca, it turned out, did not know how to play the violin. But she knew someone who could.  
  
"Who?" Tom demanded.  
  
"Dumbledore."  
  
"Oh.... No."  
  
"You want to learn, don't you?"  
  
"Well, yes, but—"  
  
"You don't really have much of a choice, Tom."  
  
"I guess not."  
  
"He's not going to /bite/ you or anything...."  
  
"But, Becca, he's /Dumbledore/. He's always looking at me like he's expecting me to do something wrong."  
  
"Tom," Becca said gently.  
  
"/What/?"  
  
"You're being irrational."  
  
"Not to mention paranoid," Braden commented from the chair where he slumped comfortably. The absurdity of Braden calling someone else paranoid snapped Tom out of his miniature temper tantrum.  
  
"Not funny, Brad," he grumbled, and stared morosely down at the violin resting on his lap. Tom ran a finger along the strings, a discordant twang.  
  
"I guess you'll have to go to Dumbledore, then," Becca said, admirably suppressing a note of triumph.  
  
Tom threw a pillow at her.  
  
"Evil-doer!" Becca exclaimed, "For that, I shall punish you!" She leaped at Tom and smacked him over the head with the same pillow.  
  
"Ack," Tom muttered indistinctly, as his face was full of green fabric.  
  
"I'll rescue you!" Braden yelled and threw himself into the fray; finger twisting and counting abandoned. "Foul varlet, attacking an unsuspecting victim like that!"  
  
"Unsuspecting?" Becca demanded, as she aimed a pillow towards Braden's stomach, "/I/ was the first unsuspecting victim, you know!"  
  
"It matters not," Braden said, with a grave dignity that was more amusing, since at the time of the words, he was dodging and ducking. His face, however, was as composed as it was during class.  
  
Tom, turning distraction into advantage, had snatched both pillows and threw them at his comrades. Becca turned, brown eyes narrowing, evil grin on her face. The boys retreated to grab more ammunition.... Once the fight was over, the Common Room was covered in white feathers drifting serenely to the floor. Apparently, the pillows were old and of inferior quality. Becca leaned against the wall as she caught her breath, holding the shredded remnants of a green velvet pillow. "Professor Lianis," she gasped, "Is going to kill us."  
  
"You—started it," Tom answered, conveniently forgetting that he had thrown the first pillow.  
  
"/I/ did?" Becca retorted.  
  
The portal swung open and Malfoy walked through. He didn't get farther than the doorway, however, because he was gaping at the pseudo winter wonderland that Tom, Braden, and Becca had created in the room. "What the hell?" Malfoy said, and then noticed Becca, with goose feathers resting in her hair; Tom, unusually flushed; and Braden, who was laughing hysterically on the floor.  
  
"Oh," Malfoy said, picking his way through the feathers, "I should have known." His vaguely pointed features contracted to a sneer, an expression with which they were becoming very familiar. "Morons! Look what you've /done/!" He said lamely, for lack of anything else to snap at them.  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy," Tom ordered.  
  
"Or what? Are you going to cry to your /mommy/?" Malfoy asked viciously. "Oh," he said, as if just realizing something, "I guess you can't, can you?"  
  
Tom lunged forward; Becca and Braden caught his arms and held him back. He struggled against them, hissing. "Let /go/! Let me /go/!"  
  
"Stop it," Becca said sharply, "It's only Malfoy, and his insults aren't all that creative anyway."  
  
Tom glared at Malfoy and contented himself with breaking Becca's grip. Braden had already released him. "Go away, Malfoy, or I swear I'll beat your face in."  
  
Becca wrinkled her nose at Tom and frowned. The boy was too angry – too apt to fly off the handle. He was completely unpredictable, and not in a good way. Malfoy sniffed, disappeared down the stairs to the dormitories, and vanished. After a moment's pause, Becca told the two boys, "I'll be back in a minute."  
  
She followed Malfoy down the stairs, catching up with him before he entered the boys' dormitory. "Hey! Janus!" she called, eliciting a glare from the blond boy – it seemed to be a family trait to burden the children with unfortunate names.  
  
"What is it, Greenburn?"  
  
"I have a question for you."  
  
"Yeah?" he asked suspiciously.  
  
"Why are you such a jerk all the time?" Becca asked in a friendly tone.  
  
"I'm not a jerk," Malfoy said, sounding surprised.  
  
"Maybe you should look up the definition, then," Becca replied, shaking her head. Some people were too odd to describe in words.  
  
*  
  
If there was one thing that Albus Dumbledore hated (and hate was such a strong word – he didn't hate.... Perhaps dislike was a better term) it was grading papers. He knew that his students could do superior work than what they turned in. Albus, who had always done his utmost best, was puzzled as to why his pupils would hand in such half-hearted reports. It was as depressing as it was puzzling, and he tried to wield the red ink and quill kindly. But still – it was so /difficult/.  
  
A tentative knock on the door startled Albus from his reverie. He slid his glasses further up his nose, resting them above the crook so that they wouldn't fall again. "Come in," he called, and shuffled the papers around so that the entering supplicant wouldn't see the students' grades.  
  
To his surprise, the boy who entered, looking at the floor and trying hard not to bolt for the door was Tom Riddle. Albus' eyebrows raised as he watched Tom's shuffling footsteps take the boy closer to the desk. "Mr. Riddle?" Albus asked. He was surprised to see Tom in his office; he was a Slytherin and had never seemed fond of Albus in the least. Quite the contrary, actually, he seemed even more detached in Transfiguration.  
  
"Professor," he said, and nodded.  
  
"Can I help you, Tom?" Albus asked, folding his hands in the pyramid so beloved by teachers.  
  
"I, well, yes," Riddle said.  
  
"Well?" Albus said, gently prodding.  
  
"MymumsentmeaviolinandIdon'tknowhowtoplayandcouldyouhelp," Tom mumbled.  
  
"A little slower, please?"  
  
"I got a birthday present from my mum. It's a violin, but I don't know how to play.... Becca said you'd know how."  
  
"Ah," Albus said, smiling, "Yes. I remember your mother loved that instrument. Sawyer told me he'd be sending it to you, but I wasn't sure if you'd want to learn...."  
  
"Of course I would!" Tom snapped, and then remembered he was talking to a teacher. "Sir."  
  
"Mr. Riddle, I am not going to murder you. You can talk to me like a normal human being," Albus said, attempting to hide his amusement: children like Riddle hated being patronized. "I will teach you how to play the violin, if that is what you wish.   
  
"Yessir. Thank you, sir!" Tom said, and hurried out of the room. No need to remain in the lion's den longer than needed.  
  
"Tom?" Dumbledore called after him, sounding amused.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Do you want to set up a time for your lessons?"  
  
"Uh, yes," Tom said, looking at the ground. In his haste to leave he'd forgotten that necessary bit of information.  
  
"Hmmm," Dumbledore said, glancing at a sheet before him, "It looks like your Tuesday afternoons are free."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Tom repeated, and fled through the door again before Dumbledore could have any sort of objection.  
  
*  
  
Tom's first violin lesson went, as predicted, well. He was a quick study in almost everything that he did, and Dumbledore was pleased to find that his student learned rapidly. Tom had learned all four strings and the notes that went with them in a week, and soon progressed to chords. These he picked up in a little under two weeks, and was soon working on simple music. The song he was really looking forward to playing, however, was Greensleeves – a song he remembered his mother playing when he was younger.  
  
As he learned, Tom's expression changed from sullen disinterest to an odd sort of intense vitality; he was doing something that brought him closer to his mother. As his spirits rose, however, Braden seemed to be suffering a sort of spiraling decline.  
  
It wasn't evident unless you knew him very well, for in public, the boy appeared even more normal than ever. He had ceased his whispering and mumbling when there was someone watching, and sometimes even forced smiles during class. His moods fluctuated wildly, and in order to stabilize them, he played word games with himself, or sometimes with Becca, rearranging letters into different combinations.  
  
None of them stuck; they were forgotten instantly as their use wore away. One day, though, Braden unwittingly came up with a phrase that just felt /right/. "I am Lord Voldemort," he said suddenly, while the three lounged outside on the grass. It was cold, but they didn't care; each child was bundled up in at least two sweaters.  
  
"You're who?" Becca demanded, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"No, Tom is."  
  
"What?" Tom asked.  
  
"'I am Lord Voldemort.' It's an anagram of your name," Braden explained.  
  
"'Lord,' eh?" Tom asked, grinning, "I like it."  
  
"Voldemort," Becca said, "Looks like you've actually come up with a real word this time, Brad."  
  
"I have?" he replied.  
  
"Yep," Becca told him, "French. It means.... Um.... Flight of death?"  
  
"Lord Flight of Death," Tom repeated, savoring the words. "I like it."  
  
"You would," Becca said. "You're a bloodthirsty savage. Do I get a name, Brad?"  
  
Braden's eyes closed in that odd way of his as he thought. "Nope," he replied after a second's pause, "It's only gibberish that we can get from YOUR name."  
  
"Thanks, Brad," she said sardonically, "That makes me feel useful."  
  
The phrase had caught Tom's fancy, and he stared off into the distance thoughtfully, blue eyes dreamy. "Lord Voldemort. It's got a certain ring, hasn't it?"  
  
Becca shivered slightly. "I'm not sure if I like it."  
  
"You don't have to," Tom said imperiously, but he was teasing – Becca could tell.  
  
"Very well, m'lord," she replied, also jesting.  
  
"One day," Tom said with a grin, "You'll call me Lord Voldemort and not mind it."  
  
"I don't think so," Becca said, raising her eyebrows, "It's not a very nice name. It doesn't suit you."  
  
"It's not worth arguing over, really," Braden said, frowning, "I'd just given him the name, I didn't know what it meant."  
  
"We're not blaming /you/," Tom said, surprised.  
  
Braden nodded a touch uncertainly. Becca stood up and smacked Tom on the shoulder. "Come on then, Lordling Voldemort, we've got Potions with the Gryffindors, and I need to get Tiny Tim before we leave."  
  
*  
  
Professor Qureshi sat on top of her desk, skinny legs hanging over the edge and thumping it lightly. It was a strangely childish position and did not seem to fit the otherwise imperiously commanding woman. "Good day, class," she said, though from her tone it did not sound like her heart was in it. It sounded as though she was expecting the exact opposite, but, out of the goodness of her soul, restrained herself from ruining everyone else's morning.  
  
"Good day, Professor," Cynthia Murray said smartly, and sat down in her seat. Tom rolled his eyes. She caught the gesture and sniffed in disdain. "I wouldn't talk, Riddle."  
  
"I wasn't," he answered honestly.  
  
She had no response, and busied herself with ignoring the Slytherins and taking out her books. They were color-coded and had been decorated with little drawings of rabbits.  
  
The rabbits had unnaturally large eyes and frightening smiles.  
  
"I didn't think that a rabbit's mouth was made for smiling?" Becca whispered to Braden, who nodded in agreement.  
  
"Will you two be /quiet/?" Cynthia asked in audible Italics, "She's going to start soon."  
  
"Hush, rabbit deformer," Becca replied.  
  
Qureshi's sharp ears had picked up this exchange, and she twisted her mouth in distaste. "Miss Murray. Miss Greenburn. Would you be so kind as to tell me what your argument is about?"  
  
"Nothing," Becca said promptly, while at the same time, Cynthia said, "She—" and then stopped.  
  
"Now that is settled," Qureshi said dryly, "Might we continue with the lesson?"  
  
"We could," Becca couldn't resist adding, earning a /look/ from the Professor.  
  
"Today, we will be learning about the different properties of potions ingredients. Yes, I know," she said, to forestall the hands that shot up like flags, "We've already done a few basic solutions. I think, however, it would be a good idea for you to have a broader background."  
  
"Ohh," Tom groaned in a whisper, "I /hate/ Potions."  
  
"No you don't," Becca corrected him, "You just think lists are boring."  
  
"But they ARE."  
  
"Mister Riddle!" Professor Qureshi snapped, "If you and your friends cannot keep quiet, I will take five points from Slytherin." Cynthia smirked. "And wipe that smug grin off of your face, if you please, Miss Murray." Cynthia stopped smiling.  
  
In her pocket, Tiny Tim shifted suddenly. He had been asleep for the beginning of the class period, but had now raised his head above the line of her pocket. Becca attempted to subdue him by pressing his head down with a thumb. Tim, normally a docile creature, nipped her finger lightly and squirmed out of his cloth prison, running agilely across the table. Becca lunged and attempted to catch him, in the process knocking several bat wing membranes into a boiling cauldron.  
  
"What—" Qureshi began, as a sudden jet of hot liquid rose geyser-like to the ceiling.  
  
Becca winced, collected her familiar, and faced the iron stare of the Potions Professor.  
  
"Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble?" she attempted with a lame effort at humor.  
  
Qureshi was not amused. 


	7. Memories

DISCLAIMER: Tom Riddle, Thomas Riddle Sr., and many concepts are not mine, they are J. K. Rowling's. Eva Meredith and family are, so don't copy, please. The Reminisce is sole property of Magic Gerbil, who gave me permission to use it. Oh yes, and I'm well aware that Tom Riddle Sr. is a creepy, arrogant jerk. I think that's it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"Qureshi's fair, though," Tom told her.  
  
"You," Becca growled, "Are not the one cleaning frog guts off of the floor. So don't bother telling me that ANYONE is fair."  
  
Tom sat on one of the desks, swinging his legs over the edge cheerfully as he watched Becca. She was on her knees on the floor, scrubbing hard at the ground with a steel-bristled brush. Frog innards, enhanced by the potion Becca had inadvertently tipped over, had several distinct magic abilities, and one of them was the amazing power to adhere to almost any surface. At the moment, they were clinging determinedly to the floor.  
  
Becca had three days of detention as punishment for Tiny Tim's mishap, three days of doing various odd jobs for Professor Qureshi after school. The little woman would look up at her student, stone-faced, and give minute instructions on how Becca was to spend her hour.  
  
Today, it was frog's guts. Tom had opted to keep her company, an ostentatious show of solidarity. Really, he was doing it because he thought it was funny to needle Becca a bit. She understood his sense of humor, though, and took it in kind.  
  
"Look, Tom, can't you bother Braden? I'm kind of," scrub, scrub, "busy."  
  
"Braden's no fun to bother," Tom whined, "He just ignores me. Besides, it's like kicking a puppy."  
  
"So you bother me instead," Becca said. It was not a question.  
  
"Exactly!"  
  
"Thank you SO much, Lord Voldemort," she said sarcastically.  
  
"Eh," Tom said, "It's weird when /you/ call me that.... I take it back. Just stick with Tom, okay?"  
  
"Will do," Becca replied, and sighed. "This is taking forever.... You could help, you know."  
  
"I know," Tom said cheerfully.  
  
"But you're not going to, are you?" Scrub, scrub.  
  
"Nope. It's more fun watching."  
  
"Then leave?"  
  
"We've been through this already, Becca."  
  
"Yes, but it's almost like you're gloating that it wasn't /you/ Qureshi's punishing."  
  
"Would I do something like that?" Tom asked, his face the perfect picture of angelic innocence.  
  
"Yes," Becca said, with conviction.  
  
"Well, maybe I would," Tom said blithely. "But you'll just have to put up with me."  
  
"I could find a new set of friends," she challenged, still scrubbing.  
  
He snickered. "Yeah, like Trahaearn and Decker? Somehow I don't think they're your types. You're stuck with Brad'n me."  
  
"My future is bleak," Becca said morosely, "Scrubbing floors eternally while Tom Marvolo Riddle is ironic to me."  
  
"It could be worse," he said, with a bad attempt at consolation, "You could be Malfoy's little sister."  
  
Becca shuddered, accidentally splashing cleaning fluid mixed with frog intestines upward, "Now that's too morbid, even for you."  
  
Tom made a face. "Aren't you done yet?"  
  
"No, I am not," Becca said, "And I will not be done if you continue talking to me."  
  
"Okay, okay, if it means that much to you, I'll shut up," Tom said, the look on his face showing clearly that he was making a sacrifice, and that Becca should feel special because of it.  
  
She rolled her eyes and went back to work, yet again.  
  
Bored, Tom pulled the necklace from the pocket of his trousers. He had discovered that the deceptively delicate looking silver cage around the central circle was impossible to bend or break. Now he could put it in his pockets without worrying about the jewelry being ruined. It was a comforting weight. Something about the tiny ball tickled his memory, but he still couldn't figure out /what/. Infuriating, frustrating, but Tom was unable to do anything about it.  
  
Until Saturday changed things forever.  
  
*  
  
The Slytherin Common room was, despite its somewhat gloomy appearance, a hub of social activity. Scott Seeley and his Beater girlfriend, Tab Kingsley, were as usual the center of attention; the crowd of older kids swirling around them repelled the antisocial trio of Tom, Becca, and Braden. It was difficult to find a place that wasn't shoved full of students, but eventually Braden had an idea: the boy's dormitory.  
  
"I shouldn't really," Becca said uncertainly.  
  
"Oh, come on," Tom said, "It's not as though we run around naked in there."  
  
"And everyone's in the Commons," Braden pointed out.  
  
"No one will know," Tom said cajolingly.  
  
"Well...."  
  
"There's a nice comfy chair," Braden said, "It's better than the ones in the girl's dormitory."  
  
"How could /you/ know?" Becca said, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Umm.... Lucky guess?" he hazarded.  
  
"Right," she replied, "You've convinced me. Let's go."  
  
They made their escape silently, down the stairs, unnoticed. No one was going to bother with a bunch of stupid first-formers, anyway. None of them felt like talking, but it was a comfortable silence. Becca sat on the chair, forced to admit that it was indeed very comfortable. Braden flopped on his stomach across his bed, the curtains pulled away so that he could see out. Tom leaned against the wall, looking at the violin.  
  
"Play something for us," Braden suggested.  
  
"Sure," Tom shrugged. He reached out and picked up the violin case, lifting the clasps carefully. He tuned it, but there wasn't really any need. Resting the instrument on his shoulder, Tom decided to try playing "Greensleeves." He'd just learned it recently, and the rendition was a hesitant and unsure.  
  
Becca's eyes lit up as she heard the opening notes, and grinned. "I have been ready at your hand / to grant whatever thou would'st crave," she sang. It was not a technically proficient voice, but wasn't unpleasant to listen to, either. "I have waged both life and land / your love and goodwill for to have—" She stopped as Tom abruptly dropped the bow onto the floor. "What happened?"  
  
"It—the necklace!" he exclaimed, fishing in his pocket and putting the violin one-handed into its case. Becca leaned forward to see as he drew the chain from his pocket, something falling out as he did. It was the golden ball that normally rested inside the silver cage – the cage had popped open on secret hinges.  
  
Becca didn't know what to say. "Is it.... Broken?"  
  
"No, I don't think so," said Tom, holding the ball in trembling fingers. "There are tiny buttons on it."  
  
"Oh!" Braden said suddenly. "May I see it?"  
  
Tom handed over the golden sphere. "Yeah."  
  
"I know what it is," Braden said, with the comfortable knowledge of one who came from a pureblood wizard family, "It's a Reminisce."  
  
"A Remi-what?" Becca asked.  
  
"A Reminisce," Braden said again, handing it back to Tom. "They're cutting edge wizard technology. This's a really expensive looking one, too, they're more money if they're smaller."  
  
"But what /is/ it?" Tom wanted to know.  
  
"They record thoughts, and you can listen to the thoughts later on...."  
  
Tom blinked. "So.... If this was my mother's, I could.... I could hear her voice?"  
  
"Yes," Braden said. "Look, I'm going to leave. Wouldn't want to intrude."  
  
Becca nodded agreement, but she reached out an arm to touch Tom's hand. "If you want to talk to us, you can," she said, unusually empathetic.  
  
"Yeah," Tom said, barely hearing them, "Yeah, all right."  
  
*  
  
It took Tom several minutes to figure out how to use the Reminisce. There were four buttons, one that turned it on, one that turned it off, and two to direct through the different 'entries.' There weren't all that many of them recorded. He pressed the first button, and a low hum emanated from inside of the ball. Next Tom flicked back to the beginning of the memories, and then pressed the 'on' button again.  
  
A soft voice filled his head, high pitched and almost girlish. "Mum," he whispered. And he listened.  
  
*  
  
Mother bought this thing for me. It's almost ludicrously ornate, very fancy. It practically screams, "I cost a lot of money and the Merediths can afford it." It's almost as though she wants me to remember: you are Meredith. You are the Heir of Slytherin. As if I don't deal with that every single day without her reminding me.... It's a trap being a Meredith, a cage, albeit one with golden bars. You and your destiny, inseparable.  
  
I don't think she understands me very well. To her, I'll always be the Odd Child, the one who shouldn't have been born at all. The replacement for her beautiful dead son who was supposed to be the /real/ Meredith heir, the one who was to be the greatest wizard of all time. Greater than Salazar himself. But instead she got me, pale, thin, Eva, a disappointment and a dreamer.  
  
It's a strange situation competing with a dead sibling. There's the guilt, of course, and the strange sense of the surreal that you're striving for parental affection with someone who is now no more than a picture enshrined on the wall and mortal remains encased in a coffin.  
  
My. How morbid, and on my sixteenth birthday, too.  
  
*  
  
There was a pause in the Reminisce, as though it were waiting for Tom to digest this information. He listened to the first entry again. The bitterness in his mother's voice surprised him – Tom always saw her in his mind's eye as a smiling presence with a ready hug and kind word. He knew nothing of her family except that they were rich. But – Heir of Slytherin?  
  
It was heady stuff for a boy with no family in contact. He dove into the memories again, and that lilting musical, cynical voice.  
  
*  
  
The last day of Hogwarts. They're crying, almost all of them, the tears streaming down their faces in sentimental lines. Not me. The only joy that Hogwarts holds for me is the fact that now I'm leaving. And the fact that I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams, beyond anyone's wildest dreams. First a prefect, then Head Girl. Top of the class. Ice-queen Eva Meredith, brilliant and cold.  
  
I can see Mother in the crowd of parents watching us go up for our diplomas and wizarding licenses. Even now she doesn't look proud of me, her only child, and when I've worked so hard for her approval. Marvolo is asleep in the chair next to her. He hasn't even bothered to look up the whole time. She's watching me, though,   
  
There's nothing for me in the magical world now, is there?  
  
No school. No friends. No lover. No mother.  
  
I'm faceless.  
  
*  
  
11th June, 1924. Dear Diary.  
  
I've never started any of my thoughts that way, but it almost seems as if today I should. After all, isn't that what giggling teenaged girls write/think when they've met a lovely bloke?  
  
It's strange, how I met him. 'Him' is Thomas Riddle, an utterly charming and utterly chilly young man. Only I, the black sheep, would even think of being in such a place – a Muggle dance hall, doing the Charleston and the Jitterbug and other imported dances from the Colonies. It's a scandal for the family either way you look, especially since it's a /Muggle/ establishment.  
  
Perhaps I should recount the night? It's an utter blur of dances, lights and alcohol, but a pleasant one. Certainly preferable to the traps at home. In the Colonies women like me are termed flappers, half in disdain and half in admiration; a generation of young women who couldn't give a damn what other people think of them. Some of us do it out of a perverse sense of mischief, and others, like me, do it to thumb our noses at our families.  
  
This is my revenge for being the unwanted child – now my mother can't even brag about me at parties. What /can/ she say to Lady Ashton when she brags about her son's accomplishments in the ministry? She certainly can't say, "Well /my/ daughter is smoking, dancing, and perhaps even drinking cheap gin." It wouldn't sound /right/.  
  
Oh yes. Revenge is sweet.  
  
But – a return to the topic at hand. Thomas Riddle.  
  
I had been taking a break from the dance, seated at the bar – with a small glass of gin in hand, of course, and an affected look of disinterest in the proceedings around me. Twenty-one and unmarried, it's old, I know. And then, I saw a man approaching – and I'd never seen anyone like him.  
  
Pale, almost ivory toned skin contrasted sharply with inky blue-black hair. Unlike many of the men there it was not slicked or oiled, just fell smoothly along his skull. His face was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. The most beautiful man I'd ever seen. Dark, soulless eyes, somewhere between brown and black, straight nose and sardonic mouth.  
  
"May I have this dance?" he asked, in an almost absurdly courtly manner. And I did. And we danced.  
  
I can tell he's not a /good/ man. Something about the eyes and the arrogant set of his lips, the callous disregard he has for anyone's feelings. Just from that small conversation I can tell. But by the end of the night, I'm sucked under that spell, I can't do anything about it, and I find myself agreeing to see him again.  
  
More scandals for Mother to hide from her friends.  
  
I think I'm falling in love with Thomas Riddle.  
  
*  
  
Tom blinked as the memories paused again. His father sounded almost exactly like him in looks, although from his mother's description, Thomas Sr. seemed an absolute pillock. It was hard to picture Eva Riddle as a flapper, but Tom could understand her feelings of being penned in, and her need to escape from the prison. He sighed, chewed absently on his lip, and pressed the 'forward' button.  
  
Memories flicker by. Dances. Gin. Thomas Riddle's face, as he courted her relentlessly. And then—  
  
*  
  
Mummy, I've been a bad girl.  
  
I'm lying here on the bed beside Thomas, and he's sleeping. He looks so innocent when he's asleep – cliché but true. None of that nasty contempt for the world is visible, the hard lines on his face have smoothed out.... He looks so /young/.  
  
He says he wants to marry me. He says he loves me.  
  
I don't know whether either is true. Somehow.... I don't know if it's possible for Thomas to love anyone except for himself. All his life, people have fallen for him, fallen hard, men and women, not even in a romantic sense – there's a cold charisma in his face, in the way he holds himself. There's an uncomfortable feeling when he watches, like he's looking through you. You don't matter.  
  
I know it won't work. He despises anything that isn't normal. I'm not normal, though it's easy to forget sometimes. I'm a witch, remember? If Thomas finds out.... Well. I wouldn't be surprised if he killed me. I'm in another trap, but this one I don't mind.  
  
I've been in love since the day I met him. Me. The ice-queen. It seems so long ago. And it scares me.  
  
I clutch the Reminisce (how I hated it at first – now I confide in it shamelessly) in one hand, and the other arm is thrown over his bare torso. Thomas stirs and smiles at me. Warm – the first time I've seen warmth in his face. "Put that trinket down," he orders, rolling over onto me, voice breathier now, "And I'll show you how much I love you."  
  
*  
  
It occurs to me that Thomas and I are very much alike. He's told me about his parents, yes, with the ice-hate in his eyes. How they belittle him constantly, don't believe that he'll ever amount to anything. His father the worst, taunting his son, calling him horrible, horrible things. We whisper to each other in the dark, letting our hatred bleed out and into each other.  
  
He knows how I feel about /my/ parents. I haven't told him the magic-secret yet, all he knows is that the Merediths are a very old family, and that I've got a legacy to live to. He can relate perfectly, the Riddles are their own twisted form of aristocracy in the town of Little Hangleton, vampires ruling over cowed villagers. At least, that is how Thomas portrays them – if he knew what vampires were actually like he'd probably lose control of his bladder.  
  
But no.... Knowing Thomas, he'd probably just grab a stake and coolly dispatch of it.  
  
He tells me he's never confided in any one before, not like he has with me. Am I that special?  
  
Does he actually love me?  
  
Careful. Take care, Eva, that's the danger, the uncertainty of knowing or not. Safer just to believe that he doesn't actually love you at all.  
  
That way your soul is still your own.  
  
Who am I fooling? I lost mine long ago.  
  
*  
  
I can't believe I'm doing this. I must be, I must be insane.  
  
But no, it's happening, unusually brisk March and I'm standing before a somber little man in a too-large black suit, one that hangs off of his chicken limbs comically. A minister, he calls himself, but a shady one at that: an expert at performing weddings for brides who are already pregnant and keeping it quiet, for a reasonable price, of course. Thomas has already given him the 'insurance,' as it's so blithely called.  
  
There are no friends here, because neither of us have friends.  
  
There are no family, because mine cut me off when they found out I was marrying Muggle, and his because they just can't be bothered to leave their village.  
  
We only have each other, Thomas said, although I know that we also have the tiny boy quickening in my stomach. Soon he will kick me.  
  
I'm wearing a dowdy dress and clutching a bouquet of wilted flowers, the Reminisce beneath my fingers. It's not how I imagined my wedding would be, but it will do. Thomas is mine now, and he mine, forever and always, for richer or poorer, or whatever the trite words which the chicken-man stumbles over are.  
  
"You may kiss the bride," he stammers, and Thomas leans over and pulls me to him, hands digging into my arms as though he's angry or afraid I'll escape. A brutal kiss, one of possession, not at all the usual wedding fare. Behind us the minister coughs uncomfortably and looks away, but I can't see, can't see anything; the only things filling my vision are Thomas' eyes, looming large before me.  
  
*  
  
Oh. God.  
  
Oh.  
  
God.  
  
Jesus.  
  
Mother Mary, help me.  
  
....God.  
  
....someone.  
  
My life is in tatters, in ruins, because of a stupid mistake. I thought I'd thrown away the wand, I thought I could be normal, I thought that Thomas and I could be happy, but oh I was stupid, oh how utterly stupid to tie myself to a man like Thomas Riddle, a man like....  
  
I'm running, I don't know where to, all I have are the clothes on my back, the violin, and the Reminisce in my hand. How could it have happened? How could I have let it? (Thomas, Thomas, no, I love you, please no—/please/) Not only is my life in tatters, but my mind is too. How could I have let myself turn into this sniveling ball of jelly? Think, think how it happened.  
  
A ladder – no, stepladder, to reach a glass in the cupboard which I was not tall enough to grasp. It slipped on the waxed floor as Thomas walked in – I could hear his pained shout – "NO!" – but it was too late. I think, now, that it would have been better if I'd really fallen and broken my neck. But there is still, inside of me, that odd quality that makes me a witch.  
  
I floated.  
  
In the air, suspended as if on an invisible cushion, unharmed but sobbing wildly. I stood and rushed towards Thomas, my arms outstretched for comfort, and—  
  
"Get away from me," he said coldly. "Now. Step back, you bitch."  
  
I couldn't—wouldn't—couldn't believe. "Thomas?" Quavering voice. So unlike mine, tinny and faraway.  
  
"You filthy lying bitch," he repeated, biting on the words, carnivore speaker. "You filthy lying /witch/."  
  
"I—" But I can't explain. I could never explain.  
  
"I can't believe it," he says, as I stand there stricken. "You've been /hiding/ this the entire time—the entire time?!"  
  
"But Thomas—I—I love you! /Please/!" Ragged voice rips from my throat.  
  
"Get out. Get out now. I don't ever want to see you again."  
  
I can feel the baby in my stomach, squirming, as if he knows what's going on. "Thomas, the, the baby, what—"  
  
"I don't care what happens to him. As far as I'm concerned, he's just as much of a freak as you. OUT! GET OUT!" he shrieks, handsome face contorted with rage, mottled purple and red and unpleasant.  
  
And here I am, running, running. To where, I have no idea. But away. Away from that life. Away from Thomas.  
  
/Thomas/.  
  
*  
  
Tom paused the Reminisce as soon as his mother's thought-voice stopped. He was shaking, his hands vibrating with fury. He wasn't crying, but the raw emotion of Eva's loss resonated in his chest. Thomas Riddle – what a complete /bastard/. Words could not express the—the anger he felt. Rage. How could she have named him after that slimy /dog/? It boggled the mind, and Tom was, for the first time, ashamed of his name. It was, with effort, that he forced himself back to the Reminisce.  
  
It would be painful.  
  
*  
  
The first happiness since the....accident.  
  
I hold my tiny son, blue-black fuzz already beginning on his head, and whisper softly to him. "I will never leave you—" hold him tighter; "Never leave you."  
  
He burbles and coos at me, and the nurse at the hospice smiles down at us. "And what will you be naming him, miss? I wouldn't ask so soon, only it's rules. Is he.... going to have the father's name?"  
  
"Yes," I say with sudden vehemence, "He is a Riddle. My son is Tom Marvolo Riddle." Not Thomas – too painful. But maybe with Tom, he won't embody the smugness of his father. I can call him Tommy. Tommy darling. A good name.  
  
"As you wish, miss."  
  
Tommy tugs on my hair, soft cries demanding. I place him to my breast, and he drinks his first meal. His eyes are so blue – like mine, but his face is a tiny copy of Thomas', at once a pain and pleasure. He will grow up to be a handsome one, will my Tommy.  
  
Where to go from here, where to get my money – that does not matter.  
  
Not as long as I have Tommy.  
  
*  
  
I didn't think much of it.  
  
Just a small cold, a tiny virus. I could sweat it out.  
  
No need to pay money for a doctor.  
  
I need to save all of that for my son, for when he grows older.  
  
I know that won't happen, for I'm dying. I can feel the life seeping through my nostrils and mouth as I breathe, warmth siphoning from my body. Dying, dying. It would have been a relief, except for my Tommy, left alone in the world. Poor Tommy. He never really knew me. But the time we had together, he will always have that. I smile, a happy thought in the gloom.  
  
Tommy, this is my last will and testament. I've made arrangements with a wizard named Sawyer, whose mother owns an orphanage. He will take care of you, Tommy, and he will make sure you get the Reminisce and the key, in the violin and Greensleeves. I'm proud of that spell.  
  
When I'm gone, I'm sure you will figure out how to open the locket and read my memories. The last years of my life recorded for you to see – isn't it funny, my life is ending at twenty-three. I'm only twenty-three. Still a child, in many ways.  
  
I know I'm rambling, but I can't help that. I'll always love you, Tommy, and I'll always love your father. Don't.... be too angry at him when you're older.  
  
It was just his way. Nothing....personal. I wish I could see him again. Kiss him again. Have him love me again.  
  
My branch of the Meredith family is directly descended from Salazar Slytherin, the founder of Slytherin House. You will understand this when you are older. It enables you to do many things. You will be able to talk to snakes, and control the monster in the Chamber of Secrets. You must find the way yourself, but once there you will instinctively know what to do.  
  
You are from a proud lineage, Tommy, and I want you to be always proud of who you are.  
  
And remember, please, that I love you. It's not my fault that I'm dying.  
  
Love.... you....  
  
*  
  
The Reminisce was motionless and silent, and so was Tom Marvolo Riddle. 


End file.
